


When In Rome

by aroncorsier



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: If you’re a fan of GrellxUndertaker you may like this too, Other, literal torture but nothing horrible or grisly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-07-04 02:04:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 41,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15831513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aroncorsier/pseuds/aroncorsier
Summary: A petty criminal (you) is sent to the Undertaker in order to have information tortured out of them. Afterwards, they meet the mortician again ten years later under unfortunate circumstances. This fic is probably good for people who have a sado-masochistic side to their fantasies, or who like non-con situations with a bit of plot thrown in.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just let me know whatever you think down in the comments, unless you’re just full of hate. Then just stop reading. But I’ll be updating this frequently over the course of this year. If you like it, check out some of my other fan fictions or comment requests :) If anyone has ideas they want written, or gods, fan art of any scenes or something, (I love fan art!!!) just leave em down there and I’ll get to it. Thanks guys, enjoy!

Well shit, I thought to myself. This is not the most... appealing situation.  
But then, neither was it so for the young earl, nor his butler.  
I was stuffed in a trunk. Not particularly comfortable, I might add, especially not for a claustrophobe, but when one is in a career such as myself, you learn to overcome those inconvenient fears.  
Mostly. There was still one I had never tamed, but that’s irrelevant.  
“Sebastian, make it stop,” growled my captor, who was seated in the opposite corner from where my trunk was laying. The butler, tall and dressed in black, was undoubtedly standing guard next to me, though I could not see him through the walls of the case.  
“You could just let me out,” I cooed, smiling to myself while fingering the little knife I had tucked away. I could take on the butler. I couldn’t kill him, but surely I could escape out the window. “I’d stop making such a ruckus.”  
“You insult my master by thinking so low of his intelligence,” Sebastian’s muffled voice warned with a low chuckle. He kicked the trunk, sending a sharp pain vibrating up my spine.  
“Ouch!” I yelped, squirming away.  
The box was heavy, made of thick oak. It was only about four feet long, and two wide. As such, I was crammed in uncomfortably, barely able to wiggle my toes.  
It was getting hot, too. And stuffy.  
“Young lord,” I tried again. “ I regret to inform you that I do still have information that you need for your precious queen- but surely, I will die from lack of oxygen shortly, if you keep me in here much longer.”  
“Then perhaps you should stop talking so much.”  
“You need me more than I need me,” I sang. “I’m already feeling light-heeeeaaded...”  
“That’s the plan,” the young earl replied. I could hear his smirk through the box. Oh, how I wanted to cut it off of him.  
“You make yourself nice and dizzy by the time we get to our next stop. Your next caretaker will have an easier time dealing with you that way.”  
“Mm?” I murmured. “And who is to be my next... babysitter?”  
“No more questions,” Sebastian snapped, kicking the box hard enough to move it slightly.  
“Then I will stick to sarcastic comments,” I replied.  
When I got no response, I sighed and shifted onto my back. Well, partially. Staring into the tight abyssal blackness, I closed my eyes and tucked my knife away. 

A short while later the carriage rattled to a stop. I could sense that a door was opened beyond me; yet I could not feel the fresh air.  
Shame, on a beautiful day like this.  
The trunk was unceremoniously kicked out of the carriage, and Sebastian undoubtedly smirked as he watched my enclosure bounce on its head on the cobblestone walkways.  
Inside, I yelped and braced my hands above me.  
Then I was dragged somewhere. The air around me cooled off dramatically as Sebastian pulled me over a sharp ledge. The jarring bump in the journey caused me to hit my shoulder awkwardly.  
“Ouch!” I yelped.  
In the distance, I heard muffled voices. Earl Phantomhive’s, and... someone else’s. More high-pitched. Female? Not quite. It dipped sometimes, into a bit more gravel. 

I fell asleep, to be completely honest with you. God, they talked, and talked, and talked. About me, obviously, and what to do with me or where to put me or something. Things were moved, heavy things; I could hear them scrape across the floor once in a while. Don’t ask me why they took so long; I haven’t the faintest. I woke up as they left, though, the butler and his master. The door to... wherever I was... closed behind them. There was a cold moment of silence, and I strained my ears against it, listening for any opportunity. Maybe I had simply been left to die. The place was cold enough to be a morgue, after all.  
One set of footsteps resumed their pattern. They came back towards me, from the door. The man who’s custody I was now supposedly in hummed curiously to himself. I listened as he circled my box, undoubtedly analyzing it and any of his upcoming options.  
I smiled.  
Silently sliding my hand down, I retrieved my hidden knife. I had it stored in my boot- the young lord’s butler had not had time to check that I was completely unarmed, as he was preoccupied with slamming the lid down on top of me as quickly as possible after barely wrestling me into the trunk in the first place.  
Gently running my index nail up and down its grooved brass handle, I tightened my grip around the blade as the footsteps approached.  
The lid was thrown open. A blast of cold air, and before I even looked, I leapt forwards with my blade extended. Locating movement, I swiped at the stranger.  
Then my lack of oxygen caught up with me and my vision went white. I heard something move off to my right, and as I swayed unsteadily, I swiped again. Nothing but air. I tilted to the left too far and tripped, over-correcting and falling out of the trunk. I swung again, to my right.  
Before my arm had its arc halfway completed, something yanked me backwards. I was launched up into the air, and my shirt constricted around me quite suddenly. My knife was ripped out of my hand by the sheer velocity at which I had been moved. My vision cleared just in time to watch it drop to the floor.  
Traitor.  
From my position, dangling in the air, I could now see a massive scythe blade curving upwards over my right shoulder. The huge weapon had slid precisely beneath my shirt, and now had me captured. A long, elegantly carved handle made of— what looked like bone— led down to a pale hand with long black nails. Attached to that hand was... an intimidating sight.  
A tall, pale man dressed in long black robes was standing far beneath me. His long white hair nearly reached the floor, and his bangs fell over his eyes. All I could make out of his face was his mouth, which was currently downturned in concentration, and a jagged scar that ran up his right cheek and disappeared beneath his fringe.  
The foreboding man clicked his tongue and tilted his head.  
“So you’re the trouble-maker,” he giggled after a moment, mouth splitting into a grin.  
I waved cheerily, swaying ominously in the air as I did so. “Hello, yes, that’s me. Langdon Coarse, at your service,” I tucked my arm beneath my chest and dipped my head. The best bow I could manage, dangling ten feet in the air on a precariously slippery and sharp scythe blade.  
“Interesting,” he murmured. The stranger dipped his head back and forth a few times, obviously contemplating what to do with me.  
I raised my eyebrows. “Not one for small talk? That’s fine, I’ll go first. My name is Langdon, known as Parva Mortem on the streets, which means—“  
“Small Death, etiam, ego audivi de te.”  
“You speak Latin,” I said appraisingly.  
The bizarre man smiled again. “It is my native language.”  
I stared at him in amazement before bursting into laughter. “Seriously? Mate, what are you, a fossil? No one speaks Latin any more,” I scoffed.  
The stranger didn’t respond, merely shrugged. The scythe I was hanging on wavered in the air as he did so.  
“Well, Small Death, allow me to introduce myself,” he grinned. “I am Mortem Magno.”  
“Listen, chap, unlike you, I am not a trillion years old,” I said, helplessly placing my hands against my chest. “So I don’t speak dinosaur. You’re going to have to translate.”  
The dark stranger chuckled. “Big Death,” he hummed menacingly.  
I feigned a swoon and wrapped my arms about myself. “Oh, oh, oh, I’m shaking in my blood-soaked leather boots,” I hissed.  
“And I in mine, I assure you,” he smiled politely.  
I shrugged, the cold metal behind me pressing into my shoulder blade. “So, Ye Olde Chap, have you figured out what you’re going to do with me? Or am I going to hang here until... speaking of, how is your arm not totally exhausted yet?” I asked, genuinely curious.  
The stranger shrugged again, white hair draping forwards over his black-clad shoulders. “I guess I have stamina.”  
“I guess so,” I echoed, impressed.  
After that, I allowed silence to fall. I analyzed him as he analyzed me. Then I looked around myself. I noticed coffins and caskets laying around in the surrounding darkness. A desk was near the far wall, with a shelf full of jars behind it. A small lamp on said desk was the only illumination in the dusty little shop.  
“Are you... are you a mortician?” I inquired, turning my gaze back to him.  
He giggled. “Well done. Indeed I am,” he replied.  
“Do they know that you’re supposed to bring the bodies to the undertaker after they’re dead?” I laughed, jerking my thumb at the door.  
Another uneasy silence fell.  
“You know why you’re here,” the mortician said finally.  
I tapped my finger against my lips. “Well,” I began. “I know why I’m being treated the way I am, yes, but here specifically, I’ve no idea. My imagination can only come up with so many solutions. Are you to imprison me in a coffin until I suffocate? That way it’s clean and easy and the police won’t find me? Because if so, you may as well have left me in the trunk,” I said, kicking half-heartedly towards the gaping box, laying ten feet beneath me with its maw still threateningly open.  
“Not quite,” the undertaker sighed. “I’ve been given the task of retrieving the necessary information from you. Normally, I wouldn’t get so involved with the young earl’s business, but in these circumstances, drastic measures must be taken,” he continued. “You have dug yourself a deeper grave than you realize.”  
“I thought that was your job,” I cackled. “Oh, you’ve set me up for so much banter. Thank you,” I clasped my hands together and shook my head.  
“I like jokes,” the mortician shrugged with another cold grin.  
I rolled my eyes. “How have you not literally fallen in love with me, then?”  
The undertaker doubled over in laughter and the scythe drooped and wavered in the air.  
I crossed my arms defensively. “Hey! Don’t laugh!”  
“F-forgive me if I m-misheard you, but on my ears, I believe you just called yourself a joke,” the mortician giggled out, wiping tears from his cheeks with his sleeved hand.  
As he did so, a small portion of his bangs was caught on the fabric. It slid lightly to the left and I perked up. Maybe I could glimpse his eye—  
It was not to be. The hair fell back into place. I scowled and glanced away before he could notice.  
“Go on, then,” I pouted. “At least tell me your name.”  
“Undertaker,” the mortician replied.  
“Just, Undertaker? Undertaker the Undertaker? Sure,” I rolled my eyes.  
The Undertaker straightened and brushed off his robes.  
“I’m terribly sorry to cut our little chat short, but I’m afraid I have clients to tend to once I’m through with you. Now, I’d like to give you one more chance,” he murmured, suddenly taking on a serious tone.  
The room seemed to darken.  
“I’m never going to tell you. Once I do, you’ll just kill me,” I hugged my arms tighter around me and stuck my tongue out at him.  
He sighed. “I won’t, actually. I think that death is... unfair. And nobody has the right to inflict it upon anybody else. No, if I wanted you dead, I have a method of going in your brain and finding the information for myself. But I don’t want to kill you,” he murmured sadly. “Here is your last chance. Tell me who hired Jacobson. And I’ll let you free,” he whispered. “I give you my word I won’t ever tell the butler where you went, either.”  
“If I snitch and walk out that door,” I said, equally sullen, “I’m a dead man walking.”  
The mortician shook his head. “That’s not my problem, but your decision is going to cost you.”  
“What, you’re going to torture me?” I scoffed.  
“One.”  
“I’ve been tortured, mate, I’ve been burned with cigars, I’ve been whipped—“  
“Two.”  
“—beaten, to within an inch of my life, I’ve got a brand on my left calf, just come a little closer and you’ll see—“  
“Three.”  
The Undertaker swung his scythe around, and suddenly I was flying. My stomach lurched as I was thrown sideways. In an instant I smacked square into the wall and slid down it.  
My head had hit. The back of my skull was pounding. My elbows hit the ground hard, and I laid there on the floor, motionless and already bleeding from the heels of my palms.  
Holy shit, I thought, gently shaking the fuzz out of my brain. I pushed myself up on my hands, leaving bloodstains, and glanced at the mortician. The scythe was somehow gone. He advanced on me, and I launched myself backwards, rolling across the floor away from him. I was halted when I collided with a casket, which I hadn’t realized was behind me. An intimidating swirl of black robes swooped down around me. His ghostly hands grabbed me by the shirtfront and yanked me up to his height. Once again, my feet were dangling in the air.  
“Tell me,” he commanded. “Before this really begins.”  
In response, I chuckled and planted my boot against his chest. To his credit, he dodged the attack pretty well, twisting his body away from me before slamming me down on the casket. I coughed as the air went out of me and grabbed onto his arms, holding his wrists. I did not fancy the idea of being struck with one of his rings.  
“You’re... pretty agile,” I wheezed out. “For a dinosaur.”  
“Why thank you,” he chuckled, lifting me up and slamming me back down. I yelped as the hard surface jarred my spine again. “I take pride in that.”  
“You should,” I coughed. “It’s a good attribute.”  
Four more times, the mortician lifted me and slammed me down. Each time, I cried out, and I bit my tongue. Coughing blood by the end, my throat was already hurting.  
Raising me up again, he dropped me suddenly and I crumpled on the cement floor. Pain shot through my legs at the collision and I fell to my knees, bracing my palms against the cold stone. The mortician kicked me in the shoulder and I toppled over. A shiver went down my spine when his icy fingers touched the back of my neck. He had grabbed my collar. Hauling me halfway to my feet, the Undertaker dragged me to the far wall. I fought his grip, but found it nearly impossible to combat something I couldn’t see. A door opened from the shadows and I was thrown through.  
Instantly, as soon as I felt my release, I braced for a roll. I was up and running as the Undertaker closed and locked the door behind us. Eyeing my surroundings from across the room, I noted that there were no windows.  
“Basement?” I panted, leaning against the wall.  
“Indeed,” the mortician smiled. “Prepared just for you,” he said, gesturing around with his hand.  
There was a large basin of water off to my left, and next to it was a metal table. Beyond that was only darkness to me— a single lamp lit the black room, from the corner by the water. On the other side, off to my right, in the corner there was a large desk or something hidden in shadows, and a lantern with a candle burning in it hung next to a wall with... tools.  
Dissection tools.  
I felt my stomach turn.  
The Undertaker followed my gaze.  
“Those are for removing innards,” he murmured, and then looked at me. “Did you know that a human being can survive with all of its organs removed as long as they remain attached and intact?”  
My eyes widened, and my heart raced. Slowly, I shook my head, forcing my mouth to stop from shaking. I cleared my throat.  
“No, I uh, I didn’t know that,” I replied, voice shaking.  
“Not many people do.” The mortician took a step forwards and I bolted to the basin of water.  
“The tools,” he said, taking easy, slow, and deliberate steps towards me, “are not very threatening, are they? No bone saws, no branding irons... dissection takes a certain amount of elegance, and precision, and patience,” he murmured, pulling up to a stop in front of me, on the other side of the basin. “It is delicate.”  
Holding back a retch of fear, I glared up at him. The Undertaker reached up to his chest. Undoing three buttons, he shrugged his loose black robes off of his shoulders. The man was as lean as a greyhound! A tight-fitted black long sleeve was now visible, as well as massive black boots with buckles that looped all the way up his legs. The mortician rolled his sleeves up, exposing more spectral flesh with a horrible smile. As he grinned at me, adrenaline shot through my veins. My skin felt alive. Blood was pumping, skull was screaming, but I hadn’t actually been part of any real danger for a while. This was why I went criminal in the first place.  
“You don’t want to do this,” I laughed breathlessly, eyes wide.  
He shook his head. “I don’t make torturing people a hobby.”  
“But me... This is where I thrive,” I hissed.  
“Then thrive,” he replied. “By all means. You are the guest, after all.”  
I laughed, and he reached forwards and grabbed my shirtfront. As I was laughing, he yanked me down. Forced towards him, my laughter halted as I was leaned precariously over the basin of water. I was almost nose to nose with the Undertaker.  
“I’m afraid I’ve been a rather rude host,” he chuckled, and I felt his cold breath on my face and neck.  
He gestured down at the water below us.  
“Would you care for a drink?” He asked.  
“No, thanks, I’m good— truly—“  
I was dragged under the water before I could finish my plea. And holy shit, was it cold.  
Freezing my face off.  
I braced my hands on the edge of the basin and tried to push my head back up as water shot up my nose. I was already out of breath. However, my shirt held me still beneath the icy surface.  
As I flailed, I felt the mortician slide around to stand behind me. His hands were warm compared to the water. I felt him grab my wrists and yank them both behind my back. In the process, he let go of my shirt. I reared up, gasping and sputtering.  
“Ever done water torture before?” The mortician asked softly, lifting his right hand and grabbing the back of my neck. I yelped as his long nails dug into my skin. Both of my hands were held in his left, and I tugged at them, twisting hard in each direction. Astounded at how he managed to keep a hold on my wrists, I yanked them downwards instead. In response, the Undertaker slid his arm between my back and my elbows and locked his grip. Now my hands were free, but nothing else was. My shoulder joints and muscles began to burn at the awkward position. To show the power of his hold, the mortician pushed forwards. I had no choice but to bend over the basin, as he was blocking off any retreat. He dipped me forwards and I sucked in a sharp breath and closed my eyes. With a chuckle, he halted. Cracking my eyes open hesitantly, I could see the glistening surface not a centimetre below me. My eyelashes were almost touching the water. As my chest began to ache, I exhaled in a relieved sigh. As soon as my breath escaped, the Undertaker slammed me beneath the water. I struggled, mind setting on fire as I was forced under the surface without any air. After a few moments, he leaned back, pulling my shoulders up with him. Soaking wet, I shook my head and gasped, glaring off into the darkness in front of me and breathing hard.  
“Well, have you?”  
“N—“  
As soon as I started forming a response he shoved me underneath again.  
I kicked at him, I yanked on my arms; I did everything. I fought with all of my might. My lungs began to pulse in agony, and my nose was going numb by the time he hauled me back out. I fell backwards against him. He was warm. Shivering and shaking, I blinked water out of my eyes.  
“N-no,” I stuttered.  
“Well,” he murmured. “You will find it very different from the type of ‘torture’ that you’re used to, out on the street.”  
“Already ha—“  
Back into the drink I went. When I felt him push forwards, I sucked in a breath and tensed. This time, I laid limp in the water, saving my oxygen. An eternity passed, his hand applying constant pressure to the back of my neck and the rest of his body leaning against me from behind, pinning me against the edge of the basin. At one point, I thrashed, just once, testing if I could catch him off guard. For my efforts, I was shoved further under the water.  
My sternum burned and screamed. Fire was surely erupting there, eating all my oxygen. The hardest part was not panicking. My heart was racing; after what must have been a hundred years, I slowly let all of my air out. It was not an action I consented to. My body decided it was a better option than keeping the carbon dioxide in my lungs.  
Lips parting, I felt my life bubble away from me in a sudden rush. My lungs were empty— my breath was gone.  
I began to feel dizzy, and as soon as I was absolutely certain I was going to die, the Undertaker saved my life again.  
Rocketing out of the water, I utilized my momentum to push him back, but it was no use. He was stone; immovable. Thumping into his chest, my knees gave out and my vision went fuzzy around the edges.  
Suddenly my world flipped again.  
Back under I went.  
Again, and again, this happened. Each time, the burning weight in my chest grew hotter and heavier. My lips faded slowly from pink to blue, and my skin went from bright winter red to cold frosty white. The candle across the room burned a quarter of its wax away.  
I began to lose track of where I was. All I could feel was the sharp contrast between the dark, freezing water, and the dark, warm body behind me, forcefully pressing me into the basin. The world began to feel like a single entire direction, as though I were going in a complete circle— it’s difficult to explain. Disoriented and exhausted, all I could focus on was breathing whenever the seal of liquid around my mouth was broken.  
At one point, he pulled me up and slid his hand around the front of my throat, leaning my head back against his shoulder as I coughed and gasped desperately for air. Never enough. I could never get enough air.  
The Undertaker pressed his mouth to my ear.  
“Tell me the name.” His breath was like fire.  
“I-I... c-c-can’t,” I stammered, choking against the light pressure of his hand on my throat.  
Down I went, empty-chested.  
The next time he brought me back, I slumped forwards and coughed up water. It was like throwing up, I found, only much more panic-inducing. I was literally vomiting out of my lungs. Halfway through another retch, I was slammed back down into the water. I could feel consciousness slipping further and further away from me. My lungs gratefully accepted water instead of air now, desperate for anything other than emptiness. I was going to drown.  
I must have blacked out. The Undertaker pulled me up what seemed like only seconds later.  
Useless. I was useless. I was limp, randomly burbling water out of my throat and falling against the mortician. Up and down. Out, alive, back into the water.  
I could feel it. My mind unravelling. My face was raw from being thrown against the sharp surface so many times. Copper. I could taste blood; my bottom lip had cracked open. There was no pain anymore, other than the constant ache in my chest. My throat had given up— my nose was numb.  
Finally, the Undertaker let go of my hands and shoved me forwards. I fell into the basin, laying with my top half in the water, draped over the edge. I didn’t even try to lift my head out. I’m sure I wouldn’t have before that point, either. Halfway through the horrible ordeal, it was only because of the Undertaker lifting me back up that I rose at all.  
That’s when I completely lost consciousness, I think.  
He recognized that I was out as soon as I dropped dead forwards into the water. My fingers draped uselessly over the lip of the basin, and I floated, drifting gently under the glassy surface.  
Hauling me out, he murmured something else into my ear... I think... by then I was definitely gone.


	2. Chapter 2

I woke up on the metal table.   
Not a great start.   
A leather strap bound each of my wrists and ankles.   
As my mind awoke, I twitched violently and coughed more water, tilting my head to the side.   
The Undertaker was across the room, by the lantern, gazing as his wall of toys. With his back facing me, I could see his hair was up in a ponytail.   
“Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky like a patient etherized upon a table,” I coughed.  
The mortician spun on his heel, feathery white hair twirling about him. His eyes flashed.   
Woah.   
His eyes glowed.   
A bright lime-green light was being emitted from his irises.   
I must have been delirious.   
Staring at the luminescent orbs, I fell silent. Surely, they couldn’t be real.   
The Undertaker clasped his hands behind his back and stepped over to me. A thick frame of white lashes shaded his brilliant eyes as he looked down at me with a sad smile.   
“Welcome back,” he said.   
“How long was I out for?” I sighed, rolling my head back against the table.   
“Well,” he murmured, placing his hands on the table and leaning over me. “You survived seven hours of water torture. Which is actually decently impressive. Then you were unconscious for two.”  
“So it’s—“  
“Three o’clock in the morning, yes,” he nodded, and his ponytail fell down around his neck and tickled my arm.   
“Y-your eyes...”  
He chuckled and stepped back. “Quite bright, yes. I’m afraid I’ll be needing them to be as sharp as possible for the next procedure.”  
Blood running cold, I felt my heart drop. Closing my eyes, I actually begged.   
“Please,” I whimpered. “Please...no more.”  
The Undertaker’s hand stilled as he reached towards the wall.   
“Water was the... nicest, of my options,” he murmured. “I was hoping you would break with just that.”  
“I’m not going to tell you,” I whispered, tears running down the sides of my face. “I’m not.”  
His footsteps approached the table again, and I cracked open my eyes. Once more, he was above me. He planted one of his hands on each side of my shoulders and gazed at me intently, mouth slightly open as he looked for something. Instinctively, I shrank back, away from his piercing gaze.   
“You’ve already told me a little bit,” he hummed.   
I froze.   
“The fact that you wouldn’t give them up when I told you I’ll end this just with killing you means that it’s more than just your fear of death stopping you. It could be criminal code, but,” he clicked his tongue and tilted his head, still gazing at me. “Let’s be honest, you’re not one to follow any kind of moral rule like that. So it’s someone you feel attached to. Someone you actually like, or, love, even,” he cocked his eyebrow.   
I raised mine skeptically.   
“As such,” he continued. “The... shall we say, employer... comes down to about four people. Your sister, your brother, Thomas J. Elliot, or Kelly McDane,”  
“You leave my sister out of this mess!” I snapped, lunging forwards at him.   
He leaned back, looking surprised.   
“Alright,” he said slowly, as I flopped back against the table. “So it’s definitely not your sister.”   
With his hands on his hips he took a step back. One final long glance at me, and he turned around and headed back to the wall.   
I eyed all the instruments.   
Scalpels, clips, tongs, a small curved blade, picks, razors, and...  
Oh god, I shivered. Needles.   
Don’t do it. Don’t pick it. Ah, shit.   
His hands drifted along all of the tools. His right hand settled on a scalpel, and his left hand settled on a needle filled with blue-tinted liquid.   
“I don’t fear pain,” I spat.   
“I believe you,” the Undertaker murmured. He bent down in front of me and held the scalpel in front of my eyes, watching my face intently. I focused on the instrument and made sure to give nothing away.   
Then he switched hands and held the damnable needle much too close for comfort. I felt pretty proud of not giving anything away, even as the deadly tip loomed in front of me. I didn’t tense up or anything.   
Then the mortician stood upright. Stepping back to the wall, he placed the little scalpel back on its little hook. Plucking a pin from its case, he brought it back over with needle. He repeated the process, holding the needle, and then the pin, in front of me. I frowned, confused, as he stepped away and put the pin back.   
“Alright,” he sighed. “Needles it is.”  
“What?” I gasped, pulling on my restraints. “N-no—“  
“You don’t fear pain,” the mortician hummed. “But you do fear needles.”  
“I-I don’t—“  
“There’s no point in lying,” he chided, glowing eyes flickering up to meet mine.   
I pressed my lips into a thin line.   
“I saw your pupils dilate,” he chuckled. “Easy trick. Something you can’t control.”  
He turned back to the wall and grabbed the three other needles. Outlined by the lantern light, he flicked one of the canisters and glanced at me over his shoulder.   
“Did you know,” he said, matter-of-factly. “That back in Ancient Rome, undertakers were also the town’s torture master? If you had a disobedient slave, back in that day, you would call upon the undertaker to come torture him.”  
“Great,” I squeaked.  
The Undertaker returned to my side, holding three syringes. One was thick dark red, one was translucent blue, and one was black.   
“Alright,” he said cheerily. “Which one do you want first?”  
I recoiled.   
“W-w-what’s in them?” I whispered, tears running down the sides of my face again.   
“That’s for me to know,” the mortician replied. “You get to pick which needle you get first. Or I can, if you don’t want to. Or, you can tell me which one of the three candidates hired Jacobson, and all of this will go away,” he whispered, voice gentle and kind.   
I looked at him.   
“Have you ever let someone down?” I whispered.   
He blinked in surprise. “Yes.”  
“Then you know why I can’t tell you,” I whimpered.   
“And you know why I have to make you tell me,” he replied sadly.   
He carefully lifted the blue needle and placed the others on the table next to me.   
Ghostly fingers gripped my arm and I flinched, barely suppressing a scream. Snapping my eyes closed, I squirmed away, breathing hard.   
He was going to do it, I couldn’t take it-  
“You have to watch.”  
“No!” I screamed.   
“You have to watch the entire thing, or else the next one is going in your eye,” he growled.   
I screamed and sobbed, but forced my eyes open a crack. The tip of the needle was right there. It was going to touch my skin. Any second now.   
I couldn’t breathe.   
Couldn’t think.   
My flesh dipped beneath the pressure of the syringe. I gagged as I felt it puncture my skin, and then I fainted.


	3. Chapter 3

It didn’t take very long for me to wake up again, and I woke up screaming.   
The mortician swore as I punched him in the chest, and hard. He had undone my restraints. Apparently, he was going to move me again, and I had woken up sooner than he had reckoned.   
I leapt backwards off the table, landed in the basin of water, and sank to the bottom. It was just deep enough for me to sit on the bottom and have the surface cover me.   
Somehow, the cold felt good. A nice wake up call. The mortician bent over the edge of the basin, looking to reach in and grab me out, but I curled up and flipped him off. I was perfectly fine with dying down here.   
His hands plunged into the water and hauled me up. Now I was sopping; all of my clothes were saturated and cold.   
He wrapped his arm around my neck and dragged me out. I clawed at his grip, flailing and kicking.   
“What-was-in-that-fucking-needle?” I screamed repeatedly, thrashing and punching with every opportunity.  
“Saline solution! I’m not using them again!” He yelled over top of my screeching.   
I stilled, hanging loose in his arms.   
“You’re not?”  
“No, I’m not going to learn anything if all you do is pass out.”  
I sighed in relief and sagged against him. Nothing could be worse than that.   
The mortician picked me up.  
...Nothing could be more humiliating than that.   
He carried me over to what I had though was a desk. When he dumped me unceremoniously on the ground at his feet, I scrambled away. Planting his boot on my back, he pushed me to the floor and pinned me there.   
Too weak to fight, I buried my face in my hands as he opened the lid to what I now recognized was a deep freezer.   
“It’s not cold,” he assured me, before grabbing me by my ankles and dropping me into it. My fingertips dragged along the smooth floor uselessly as he lifted me.   
He hadn’t been lying. The inside of the deep freeze was dry and actually somewhat warm. I noticed one small hole had been drilled into it on the far side- air.   
As I tumbled in, I hooked one leg over the edge to block him from closing the lid. Positioned awkwardly, I stared up at him, exhausted.   
“So, what, you’re going to just keep me in here?” I demanded.  
He pursed his lips. “Yes and no,” he replied, before shoving my leg in and slamming the lid shut. I banged on the lid from the inside, but it wouldn’t budge. Then I heard the click of a padlock and gave up.   
The floor vibrated beneath me as the mortician shoved the deep freezer away from the wall. It was extremely dark- my only source of light was the small hole in the far right side.   
Then I heard a squeak of metal, and the deep freeze was lifted off the ground. I hiccuped in surprise and jumped. The deep freeze swayed ominously to the right, which sent me tumbling to the left. As I hit the far left wall, my momentum changed the momentum of the deep freeze, and it swung down to the left. On its upwards arc, I lost my grip and sprawled towards the right.   
I couldn’t keep my grip anywhere. My muscles were too fatigued and oxygen-deprived to maintain a position against the smooth interior.   
“What is this? What’s going on?” I shouted. The deep freeze swung around and then started to spin a little, this way and that. Every time it turned I was thrown into a wall, hitting my head, shoulders, hands, knees, everything. My body tumbling around inside granted it perpetual motion, hanging in the air.   
“You’ll be in there a while,” the mortician said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go prepare a client, and eat something. I’ll be back for you in... nine hours,” he shouted up, and my heart rate leapt.   
“You can’t leave me here!” I cried.   
“Actually,” he said, almost to himself, “I can.”  
I wept as I heard the door unlock, open, and lock again.  
While I was stuck in a stupid deep freeze, hurtling back and forth. 

After an hour of being flipped around, I was already ready to break. Or die. Every time I hit the next wall, I felt like I could hold myself there. Slow the momentum. And yet, as I broke open more knuckles and rubbed off more skin, the interior got slicker and slicker. I slid around freely. Never underestimate the size of a deep freeze when it’s not covered in ice.   
“UNDERTAKER!” I screamed, voice long hoarse.   
He never checked, of course. 

Apparently, nine hours later, I was still alive. Miraculously. Nearly unconscious.  
I barely registered the deep freeze being lowered until it settled on the ground. Sliding to a halt, I didn’t even have the energy to open my eyes when the lid was opened. Feeling arms around me, I was as limp as a rag doll as the mortician dragged me out of the stupid box.   
I flopped forwards onto the floor. I was bruised and bloody, having been battered nearly to death. My hand was broken, I had a gash across my forehead, and most of my body was black and blue.   
He laid my head in his lap gingerly and pressed something cold to my mouth. I felt the water and jerked away from him, falling on the floor.   
“Calm down,” he soothed, placing a hand on my back. “You need to drink.”  
“No,” I rasped, voice dead from screaming. “I will die before I tell you, and I don’t want this anymore!”  
“No one likes being tortured,” the Undertaker hummed. “Not for real. But we need to know who to hunt down. We won’t torture him; that I can promise you. But, for the safety of nearly the entire world, we need Jacobson and him to be in the secure custody of the earl. And now that I have three names, I could just imprison all of them,” he said. “But I’m not fond of these inhumanities and injustices.”  
“You... just... locked... me... in a deep freeze for nine hours,” I spat.   
“And you’ve tortured and killed three other people,” the Undertaker retorted. “One of them practically a child. You’re no angel, m’dear.”  
“Leo deserved it, and it’s gonna be four in a minute, mate.”  
“Will it?” He asked, sounding tired.   
Then I shook my head and burst into tears. “I’m never going to tell you,” I hissed.  
The Undertaker sighed and shook his head. “You’ll have more scars than me by the time this is finished, then.”  
“You’re resorting to cutting me? How crass,” I coughed, trying to roll away from him. I only managed to flip onto my front before his hand wrapped firmly around my shoulder.   
Then suddenly he released me. Too weak to actually bother with a concentrated escape effort, I flopped unceremoniously onto the floor as he walked away from me. I heard the door click open.   
“I’ll be back in an hour,” he said coldly, clicking the door behind him.   
Now I was alone in the darkness, on the cool concrete floor.   
I cradled my right hand, which I was fairly certain was broken, and tried not to focus on the burning pain surrounding my body.   
A small shadow of blood surrounded me on the floor, the slow drips from various cuts not having the energy to heal.


	4. Chapter 4

An hour of laboured breathing and coughing later, the door swung inwards again. I felt a little bit more alive from the small break, and I forced myself to turn back over. I could see the Undertaker re-locking the padlock behind him. He still hadn’t replaced his large black outer robes.   
Then I noticed something in his hand.   
Red, and glowing.   
He glanced at me, and I sobbed and tried to push myself away. With a few steps, the mortician was already caught up to me. He planted his boot against my shoulder and pushed me to the floor, flat on my back. Then he straddled my waist, and I could no longer move. Breathing in and out hurt me- I rasped with every inhale. Wide-eyed, I stared up at him, petrified. His glowing eyes were expressionless in the dark. Then my gaze shifted to the object in his right hand- the red-hot scalpel. He was wearing a glove to protect himself from the heat of the instrument.   
The only two things in the darkness; his eyes, the knife, both backlit by the dying candle across the room.   
“This will instantly cauterize the wound it causes,” he said, voice low and soothing. “I can stab and cut you as much as I need until you give me the information.”   
“Please don’t,” I rasped painfully. “I won’t... I won’t tell you.”  
I winced as the scalpel hovered near my face. My heart was beating harder than ever. I could feel the heat on my cheek, just below my eye. I choked on my own fear.   
The mortician clicked his tongue. “Maybe not there.”  
I shuddered as the fire drifted downwards. It singed my shirt fibres.   
“That’s going to be more mess to deal with later,” he murmured to himself, and he curled his fingers beneath the hem of my shirt.   
My clothing had given me a sense of protection and I squirmed, holding down my arms when he attempted to lift my shirt off of me.   
With a single glare, he said-   
“Would you rather it fuse to your skin?”  
I whimpered. “I’d rather not be burned at all!”  
He ripped the shirt off of me and I sobbed, wrapping my arms around my torso. Squeezing my eyes closed, I tried to focus on what my toes were feeling. Cold, numb, calm.   
I felt his fingers wrap around my wrist and haul my right arm upwards.   
“Who hired him?” He demanded.   
I pressed my lips into a thin line and shook my head.   
The blade pressed into the skin on my forearm and slid across it. I choked back a scream as the fire bit into my flesh. Then all that was left was the trail of an itching burn.   
“Not even a sound?” He cooed, and I felt a tear slide out of the corner of my eye.   
He pulled the blade across the palm of my hand and I jerked back, biting my lips as more tears ran down my face. My body jerked of its own accord, but the mortician simply rested on top.   
The little blade was then shoved straight into my stomach. Only an inch or so long, it couldn’t do much damage, but being stabbed hurt like fuck and I threw my head back and screamed, twitching on the floor. It seemed surreal as my mind began to separate from my body, and I heard my scream distantly echo in the cold black room.   
He let it sit for a moment. Another scream erupted from me as he tugged the knife out. He tore another succession of agonized screams from me when he dragged the blade horizontally across my stomach. I refocused on my toes. Cold. Calm. Not being cut. I centred my mind on that while the mortician did something with the blade just above my left hip.   
“Give me the name,” he commanded, planting his other hand on my throat.   
I gagged against the pressure and shook my head. He slashed the knife quickly across my face diagonally. The red glow lit up my vision in my left eye as it glanced over. The rage of the stinging line left behind would have made me scream again, if I wasn’t simultaneously being strangled.   
My lungs began to burn, still weakened from the water. I thrashed and kicked. I wildly battered at him with my left hand, my right arm laying limp on the floor. Finally the mortician released his grip. He pressed the blade flat against the flesh behind my ear. I choked out another sob, my voice nearly silent from the wear.   
“You’d better stop screaming soon,” the Undertaker warned as the blade flashed along my other arm in three quick successions.   
I coughed in response.   
“You’ll snap your vocal cords.”  
Breathing heavily, I simply laid there on the floor under him, both arms burning, ear screaming, and face on fire from the cut across my eye.   
I could feel my tears leaking down the sides of my face, I could sense my mouth quivering and my skin on fire, but my mind was clouding. I was going numb. Somewhere, in the back of my head, I knew I was going into shock; but there wasn’t much I could do about that.   
His fingers delicately placed themselves along the right side of my cheek, and he lifted open my eyelid.   
I stopped breathing.   
The blade was hovering directly above my eye, red hot filling my vision.  
I was crying, but my heart stopped dead.   
The blade began to move, drifting closer and closer.   
My mind fought with itself.  
Right before the searing metal irrupted my flesh yet again, I broke.   
“ELLIOT!” I screamed, arching away. “Elliot! It was Elliot! I can show you the letters,” I gasped, shaking and twitching as the mortician pulled the blade back.   
His eyes widened in surprise, and he tossed the knife across the room. I heard it drop into the basin of water before I pressed my eyes closed and fell into darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

I woke up in a real bed, for the first time in...  
Jesus, a few years now, I thought.   
My eyes cracked open. I breathed a sigh of relief when I realized I could still see out of both of them.   
Slowly pushing myself up, I winced as every muscle in my body screamed.   
I coughed once, into my elbow, and I realized that my right hand had been bandaged with a thin layer of cotton strips and some kind of hard resin cast around the palm and wrist.   
I could barely move my fingers.   
I glanced at my left hand. It had a single bandage across the palm where I remembered I had been cut.   
Glancing down, I carefully pushed the blankets off of myself. Another bandage was plastered on my midsection, just above my navel.  
I touched it gingerly, and pain lanced into my core. Wincing, I slowly swung my legs over the edge of the bed.   
My pants had also been removed. I had more bandages... almost everywhere. My left knee was wrapped, and my ankle. A single strip covered some bruise or scrape on my right knee as well, undoubtedly from the deep freeze.   
Both my forearms were heavily wrapped. Carefully, I prodded at my face and behind my ear with my left fingertips.  
I had stitches across my face; I could feel them beneath the bandage. The cut had barely skipped over my eye. Another thick pad of cotton was glued over my scalp behind my ear.   
I pushed myself off the bed and looked around. The damage done to my body forced me to lean more of my weight onto my right leg.   
There was a wall of bookshelves off to my left, a large window behind me, and a desk along the far wall by the door. I hopped slowly and painfully over to the chair and fell into it.   
I coughed again. Realizing I was hardly dressed, I glanced to a tall wardrobe off to my right.   
Hobbling over to it, I pulled one of the grandiose doors towards me. As it swung open, it revealed multiple sets of slightly varied long black robes. I sifted through them gently and selected one that had a few buttons in the front. Slowly pulling it over my shoulders, I carefully buttoned it up.   
The smooth black fabric fell far past my hands and feet, draping open at my throat.   
I shuffled out the door. It opened directly into the shop with the coffins. My eyes locked on the three figures in the room.   
The Earl, his butler, and the Undertaker all looked at me as the door swung shut behind me, batting me out into the room. I held their gazes, blood running cold.   
The young lord lifted his eyebrow and gestured towards me.  
“This is the result?”   
“Indeed,” the Undertaker chuckled, bangs hiding his face once more. He pushed himself off of the tall desk he was sitting on and stepped towards me. I stumbled away from him, crumpling against the door and raising my sleeves in defence.   
The mortician calmly stepped forwards and wrapped one of his long arms around my waist, gripping my wrist with the other before pulling me back against him and turning the both of us to face the earl.   
“As you can see,” he cackled, voice reverberating down my spine. “This one took quite a bit of time and effort.”  
He tapped the cut across my face and I flinched back. Then his fingers curled into my sleeves, and he pulled them both upwards, pushing them up my arms to expose my broken hand and scarred up wrists.   
After the earl nodded appreciatively, the mortician gripped my jaw and forced my head to the right. I simply obeyed, fearful of what may happen per the earl’s instructions otherwise. The bandage behind my ear was shown, and then the Undertaker unbuttoned the front of my robes and held them open to show my ripped and bruised torso and legs.   
I stood still, shameful and shaking, stuck between my torturer and those who had ordered it in the first place. My black and blue flesh was put on display.  
“That is all compounded by seven consecutive hours of water torture,” the mortician chuckled. “And basic starvation, of course.”  
Even the butler looked horrified, and Ciel simply glanced away.   
“Thank you for retrieving the information, Undertaker,” the young lord said, folding his arms.   
“You’re welcome,” the mortician stated, his hands reaching around me to re-button the robes. He stepped away and suddenly the support that I was leaning on— subconsciously, mind you—was removed. I fell back, tripping over the long black robes. I hit the wall and cried out weakly, voice still hoarse from screaming. I slid down the door and pressed my sleeves against my eyes.   
The Undertaker halted in his tracks, turning to look at me and tilting his head. He stepped towards me again. Whimpering, I curled up, against the protests of my body and lifted my arms, crossing them over my face and hiding from him. The mortician crouched beside me and slid an arm beneath my shoulders, pulling me with him as he stood. Keeping his arm about me, he stepped back towards the earl. I clung miserably to his robes and hobbled with him.   
“We can take Parva Mortem off your hands, now, sir,” the butler said, stepping forwards and holding his hand out towards the mortician.   
I shrieked and stumbled back again, staring wildly at the earl and Sebastian. The Undertaker kept his hands firmly on my shoulders and held me in front of him. I pushed myself away from them, feeling strangely safer with the mortician against my back. He let me collapse against him and I glanced at his face.   
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Michaelis, thank you,” he smiled icily.   
Ciel stepped forwards. “Undertaker, we insist-“  
“And I insist otherwise,” he replied softly.   
Relief flooded me as the earl took a surprised step backwards.   
He and his butler nodded, bowed, thanked the mortician once again, and exited the shop.   
“Elliot can deal with his own mistakes,” I rasped tiredly. Then I realized the Undertaker still had his grip on me, and pushed off of him. His pale fingers curled into the robes and held me still.   
“Calm down,” he chuckled. “Your pain is over. Now, you only need to heal.”  
“Let me go!” I screamed. I ripped myself free and stumbled away from him, dashing from the shop and running down the street, disappearing as I had done oh, so many times.


	6. Chapter 6

Over the next ten years, I kept the robes I had stolen from my tormentor. I wore them whenever possible. Had they been white, they would have been reddened thoroughly by the amount of blood I got on my hands.  
Although, I had adopted a new policy: I would no longer kill. Murdering was in my past. I became known as a very dangerous person, making people come the closest to death possible. My methods were considered unorthodox, even to criminals. They were effective. I myself hardened to torture, and not in the euphemistic way.  
The days following my grand escape, I went to a drug den and crashed on one of the horrible little mattresses, provided by Elliot’s sister-in-law. Once my wounds were mostly healed, I was back on the street, fighting other petty criminals for food and money. The diagonal scar across my face and all the marks on my hands and arms lended some credibility to my name; I joined a pretty fearsome gang a year later, and then on a major drug bust, half of them went to jail. Rumours spread that I had snitched for an immunity on a previous murder, which was false, but I rolled with the talk to make me more feared on the streets. The Undertaker had left a particular brand that I only noticed when things were healed enough for the bandage to come off. The scrawl above my hip now read “Vitae”. I had to ask around, humiliatingly enough. I learned that it meant “vitality”. In other words, “life”, or “living”. A cruel joke, in my mind, but it lead to my new street name of Vitae Mortem— Living Death. I had survived the mortician.  
The long robes fit me better as I advanced from small, lanky teenager to young adult, weathered and strengthened by the underground life.  
One day, I was simply walking down an alley towards a known club, looking for a drink and maybe some innocent trouble, when two large men cornered me. I first registered the one who turned into the alley in front of me. When I glanced over my shoulder, of course I saw the other. They both wore white bandanas on their biceps- sign of the Blood-moon gang.  
I was fuuuuuuucked.  
I dashed forwards, trying to reach the first door on my left, but both of them ran towards me faster.  
“Hello, fellas,” I chirped as they stood stiffly on either side of me. “Care for a sweet?” I asked, reaching towards my pocket.  
The one behind me grabbed my arms, the one in front landing a blow against my jaw. My head snapped to the side and I spat out blood.  
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” I laughed maliciously. “Or have you not heard about who I am?”  
“We know who you are,” the one behind me growled.  
The one in front hit me a few more times and I sagged against the thug holding me. One thing I have learned since that first day is that if you’re being tortured, you might as well just go limp. Your body is a lot heavier for your captors to manipulate.  
Another punch snapped my head back. Then the stranger behind me twisted around and hauled me with him. Thing 1 dragged me down the alley, grunting with the effort as I rag-dolled in his arms. Thing 2 followed us closely.  
“What are you gonna do,” I rasped. “Throw me into a sewer? Tommy Little did that already. Have you ever fought a sewer alligator? Those things get big, mate-“  
I stopped talking when he simply laughed.  
I was dragged from the alley to a fairly busy street.  
It was nighttime, so not many people were around, but carriages rattled past freely and fast. It was a known fact that carriages would speed by at night, figuring that there would be no pedestrians.  
The two thugs pulled me behind a bush.  
“What n-“ as I opened my mouth, Thing 2 jammed his bandana into my mouth and tied it around my head.  
Uh oh. That was a bad sign.  
That was their gang’s signal. Whenever they killed someone, they left their bandana on the body.  
I began to fight. I thrashed in their grip, and they simply pulled me upright. I heard a carriage approaching. Maybe if I could get free-  
And then I was free. I was soaring through the air. I landed on the street, right in front of the carriage. Before I could even put my hands up, the horses charged over me. I got a hoof to the chest, one to the mid-back. Then the carriage wheels ripped over me. Pain exploded in my ribs as one of them broke under the pressure, and the other wheel drove over my shoulders as the carriage veered. It was over in a second and the carriage drove away, as fast as it could. I laid still on the road, biting back whimpers of pain. It would be better for me if the two thugs thought I was dead.  
It was a long time before I could move again. My bones hurt, and my ribs screamed with every muscle movement. I winced and pushed myself to my feet, glancing behind me. The thugs were gone.  
Stumbling to the other side of the road, I leaned against a light post and sank down against it. I fumbled with the knot behind my neck. Finally loosening it, I pulled the kerchief away from me. I ripped it up into long thin strips of white patterned cotton and braided them all together, tying it tightly at the back of my neck.  
Now people would know I survived a Blood-moon assassination. Even more blood credit.  
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.  
I glared off into the darkness. Had I heard something? Had I seen something?  
I waited, huddled against the light post. I didn’t like my position. I was easily visible- the rest of the night was not. My breathing stilled as my eyes scanned the darkness.  
Finally, I decided my best bet was to take control.  
“Who’s there?” I called out aggressively.  
A familiar chuckle drifted out from the dark.  
“It’s been a while, m’dear.”  
His clothes were so dark, I didn’t even notice him step forwards until a breeze shook his ghostly white hair.  
“Undertaker,” I breathed. “What are you doing here?”  
“Out for a walk,” he replied, an eerie grin splitting his porcelain face. He held out a hand towards me. He was halfway across the street. “Care to join me?”  
“How long have you been watching?” I hissed, fingering my new necklace.  
“Ever since you were dragged out of the alley. I hid in a doorway to watch. You’re still wearing those robes... how long has it been?” The Undertaker murmured, tapping his mouth  
“Ten years,” I growled. “Ten years since you shoved me under the water, slammed me in a deep freeze, and sliced me to ribbons!”  
“Like you’ve just done to that poor bandana?” He asked.  
I ripped my hand away from my neck. “It’s the Blood-moon gang’s symbol. They leave their bandanas on people they kill. I’m the first to survive a hit attempt from that gang,” I explained coldly.  
He nodded appreciatively. “Being hit by a speeding carriage... that’s a pretty rough show,” he coughed. “I’m honestly surprised you survived.”  
“I’ve toughened,” I snapped. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve had done to me since you.”  
“Well, apparently, I was not your first,” he grinned mischievously. “Or do you not remember our friendly discussion?”  
“I remember,” I huffed, crossing my arms and wincing as my broken rib cried out at the action. The Undertaker didn’t miss it.  
“You’re damaged.”  
“I lied to you,” I spat. “Hoping that you would be intimidated. I was naive... I didn’t realize people could do any worse than the things I said, like beating and branding. And none of those had ever happened to me, either. I mean, other than street fights.”  
The mortician’s grin faltered. Then he corrected himself and held his hand out again. “Care to join me? For old times’ sake?”  
“What, are you going to drag me into an alley to torture me some more?” I hissed. “Because, no thanks.”  
“No, no,” he waved a diffident hand. “I’m ten years older, and you’re ten years stronger. I don’t think I could even if I wanted to.”  
“You don’t look like you’ve aged,” I replied.  
He chuckled lightly. “That’s very kind of you.”  
He took three slow steps towards me, boots clicking on the pavement. A light rain had begun to fall, and I glared up at the sky.  
“Come along,” he cooed, hand still outstretched. “You’ll catch a chill.”  
“And why would you care?”  
The mortician shrugged. “I don’t like unnecessary suffering.”  
I laughed in his face. “Says the torture master,” I scoffed.  
“I’ll take the word ‘master’ as a compliment,” he hummed, stepping towards me again. His hand now hovered directly in front of my eyes and I pressed myself firmly back against the light post. His shadow cast down over me. “And that, may I remind you,” he said lowly, “was entirely necessary.”  
“Fuck off, mate,” I spat, glaring up at him. “I don’t want to partake in any of your weird little games. Your name is here too, y’know.”  
He tilted his head questioningly.  
“In the crime world. I was surprised to hear about you, at first, but your name turned out to be common knowledge. No one was all that shocked that you were the one who gave me my scars,” I hissed. “You’re a freak show. You’re a psychopath. The only reason they were surprised was that I made it out of your shop alive.”  
He chuckled. “To be fair, I’m an undertaker. Most people don’t even enter my shop alive, much less leave. Come along.”  
“What part of this message haven’t you gotten?” I cried.  
“The part where you’re still wearing my decade-old robe, which has definitely seen better days.”  
His hand dropped away. “Ah, I remember the day you stole it. You were so young, I remember thinking to myself, the entire time, what could this child possibly be holding that’s so bloody important? I remember the Earl and I discussing what was to be done with you. Then you popped open the bedroom door.”  
“And you showed me off like a- like a medal, like a trophy for how good of a job you had done destroying me,” I spat. “Did you even think about how fucking vulnerable I was? You were literally exposing me! I was so-“  
“Scared,” he murmured sadly, tilting his head again. The mortician’s smile faltered. “You were so scared.” He pulled his arms around himself. “You were so afraid, you were shaking. Your tiny, frail little body was shaking against me, and I had to put my hands on your shoulders. I unbuttoned those exact robes, and you flinched, but you took it.  
Then I walked away and you fell. I didn’t mean for that to happen, so I picked you back up. I didn’t know what else to do. The butler offered to take you away. Even if you hadn’t reacted so violently, I would have forbidden it. But I thought that maybe, maybe you would stay— that, of course, didn’t work as soon as you fled the shop. I spent years looking for you, tracking you down. You were always two steps ahead of me. Tonight was actually an accident,” he murmured.  
I raised my eyebrow at his monologue.  
“You’ve got issues, mate. Obviously, those days haunt you. Move on, pal,” I said, pushing myself to my feet. He was closer than I realized. “I have,” I finished, patting his shoulder and walking away.  
He hooked his finger into my sleeve.  
“Obviously not,” he murmured, still much taller than me.  
I attempted to jerk my arm free and turned back to stare at him. The light from the street lamp now outlined him, making his silky hair glow.  
“Sorry?” I aggressed.  
“If you’re wearing robes from ten years ago... it tells me you haven’t moved on from what happened, those very ten years ago,” he replied slowly, gently feeling the fabric of my sleeve between his fingertips. Then he held out his hand.  
“Come for a walk with me.”  
“Give me one good reason why I should,” I hissed, glaring at his bangs.  
The mortician shrugged and pushed his now dripping hair back from his face. “Because it is raining,” he said simply, eyes still glowing beneath white lashes. “And the shop is dry and warm.”  
I folded my arms, shivering against the cold as my clothing began to take on water. A drop went down the back of my neck. It seemed to be coming down much harder now.  
“Last I remember it, it was freezing,” I riposted.  
“There is an upstairs you haven’t seen.”  
I glared uneasily at the outstretched hand for a few moments longer, and then glanced at the Undertaker. His long hair was soaked to his back and shoulders, yet he waited in silence.  
With a final glare at the sky, I sighed, slumped forwards, and sadly planted my palm in his.  
His bony fingers wrapped around my hand gently, long nails resting against my flesh lightly. A delighted smile revealed his teeth again, glinting in the lamplight.  
“Plus, I’ll need to take care of that rib for you,” he murmured, stepping back and pulling me with him. With no protest, I followed him as he stepped quickly down the street. My sternum also hurt, every time I breathed- and everywhere else, come to think of it. I was dragging my feet a bit, barely able to force myself to keep pace with the Undertaker.  
The mortician slowed and slid his arm beneath my shoulders. I leaned on him, somewhat resentfully, and after a few more blocks, we were in front of the shop. Funny that I hadn’t actually recognized the area sooner.  
I guess I always approached from the west.  
The mortician pushed open the door and locked it behind us. I stumbled in and looked around. The atmosphere was the same. Cold, and dangerous. Coffins lay scattered throughout the room. I glanced at the small, half-hidden door at the back, stiffening.  
The Undertaker noticed.  
Wrapping his arm around my waist, he pulled me towards the door.  
“Come on, my dear. Would you like to see?”  
I began to shake as we drew near. Swallowing thickly, I stared at the door. The mortician looked at me carefully, analyzing my no-doubt petrified face. Smiling kindly, he rotated the handle to the basement room and opened the door. Down the steps that I had once been thrown, there was only blackness.  
Then the Undertaker reached around and lit a lantern hanging on the wall, picking it up and heading down the steps slowly. Halfway down, he paused and glanced back at me.  
I took a tentative step down, inhaled deeply, and followed him.  
When the mortician lit the rest of the room, it was much... cozier than I remembered it.  
Where the tub of water had been, there was a cushioned arm chair. Next to it, a small wooden table. Across the room, where the tools had been, a small cot rested against the wall. The wall across from me hosted an entirely new collection of old books and tomes. A writing desk now stood where the deep freeze had been hidden.  
The mortician set the lantern down on the wooden table and stepped towards me. Instinctively, I flinched. Normally, I would have tensed, ready to fight, but under this particular threat, I seemed to return to my childish, fearful me.  
He smiled at me, glowing eyes hidden and dampened in the warm light. His fingertips reached forwards to hover beneath mine. After a moment, he closed his grip lightly on my hands and guided me forwards.  
“It’s much nicer, now,” he murmured.  
I slowly walked around, ignoring the pain in my muscles.  
“Indeed,” I whispered, touching the armchair lightly.  
The Undertaker allowed me time to look around a few more moments.  
“Shall we?” He urged, cocking his head towards the stairs.  
I raised my eyebrows. “Mm?”  
“We can head upstairs and change,” he explained. “I can start a fire, we can talk, eat, and sleep.”  
I shook my head with a light laugh. “You certainly know how to live.”  
I stepped towards him and up the stairs, leaving the room behind me. He stayed behind a moment to blow out all the lanterns.  
As we ascended the final steps, he pointed off to our right. “That’s the door to the bedroom you woke up in, my typical personal bedroom.”  
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied slowly, glancing at the door.  
He chuckled. “So you can go plunder it for more robes to steal?”  
“Obviously.”  
The Undertaker proceeded to guide us upstairs. We were greeted by another quaint room. The back half of the room was littered with blankets and cushions, thick rugs layered beneath that. The entire floor was creaky, rustic floorboards. On the other side, there was a small metal box resting on a steel plate on the floor. On the left, there was a shelf with various edible... things resting in its nooks and crannies. Half a dozen lanterns lined the walls, their wicks halfway dead.  
“What is this?” I inquired, stepping up into the room.  
“Just a... sort of... hang out room,” he explained, air quoting.  
“Do you frequently have people over who just... hang out?” I asked. “You don’t seem the type.”  
“Well, actually,” he murmured. “There’s a certain redhead who drops by almost bi-weekly. The downstairs bed is for him. This is just a general use of space,” he continued. “Being cozy is nice, and sometimes it’s fun to just come up here where it’s warm and read.”  
He crouched and unclasped the top three buckles of his boots. Sliding them off, he left them by the doorway. I did the same with my boots, which were smaller and made sturdier for more... adventurous activities than his. He stepped over to a small trunk that had hidden beneath the goodie shelf. Kicking it open, he reached in and pulled out a new set of black robes. Shedding his old ones, he pulled the dry clothing over top of his shoulders and allowed it to drape down around him. He also removed all of his under-clothing before moving over the little steel box. He gestured back at the trunk.  
“Help yourself,” he said. “Take off whatever is wet.”  
I subconsciously wrapped my arms around my shoulders. He chuckled before turning back to the box and crouching.  
“I’m not going to take those ones back, it’s okay to take them off.”  
I sighed and moved to the trunk. Reaching in, I carefully sifted through the layers of folded fabric. I found a new set with a loose neckline.  
Carefully sliding out of my wet robe, I laid it on the floor next to me. I didn’t wear any shirts beneath, unlike the Undertaker, so I pulled the warm clothing over my frigid skin. Then I stripped off my pants and left them by my shoes, leaving me in my stockings.  
The mortician, meanwhile, had lit a piece of wood with one of the lanterns on the wall, carrying it back to the box. He placed it in, and a fire was lit. With a metal rod, he tipped the top square of the metal cube back on. There were holes in it, forming a grate.  
The mortician rubbed his hands together. Retrieving mine and his robe, he laid them out in front of the box. The room began to heat up nicely.  
He gestured for me to go to the cushioned area. I flopped down into them, finding it ridiculously soft.  
The Undertaker reached up to the shelf and brought over a small tin, along with a flat canteen and two small cups.  
He poured water into one and handed it down to me. Abandoning the canteen and second cup on the floor, he elegantly laid himself down next to me and offered me the jar.  
There were bone-shaped biscuits inside.  
I shook my head and took one. “Appropriate.”  
“I like to think so,” he settled down and stuck a cookie in his mouth.  
We sat in silence as the room warmed rapidly. The mortician braided the hair at the sides of his head and used the lengthy braids to tie up the rest of his hair in a ponytail.  
I sighed and folded my arms behind my head.  
“You have a very dangerous criminal in your bed,” I said, glancing over at him.  
He smiled down at me.  
“I remember the very dangerous criminal dangling ten feet in the air, looking very skinny, and acting very cocky,” he laughed.  
“One of those things is still true,” I rolled my eyes.  
“Yes. You’ve filled out a bit more. It’s good to see. You were... worryingly thin.”  
“I made a name for myself,” I explained. “As a simple fact of nature, the stronger get more food.”  
“Been swimming since that day?” He asked with a humourless chuckle.  
“I’ve been tossed off of Blackfriar’s a few times, so I’ve revisited the water, yes.”  
“Your scar hasn’t faded.”  
I tilted my head and looked directly at him. “Neither has yours.”  
I sighed and leaned my head back.  
The mortician’s eyes swept up and down my body, shamelessly analyzing me. They settled on my ribcage and he stiffened.  
“Here,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll go get the casting material and protect your broken rib. In the meantime, I’ll need you to take off your robe,” he instructed.  
I opened my mouth in protest, but he tapped my nose and quickly fled the room, heading downstairs to retrieve his materials.  
With a resentful sigh I gingerly sat up and pulled the long robes off over my head.  
I laid back down. Being in my underwear and stockings no longer bothered me; the amount that people seemed to feel the need to take off their victim’s clothing while fighting or otherwise injuring is... disturbing. I’d been involuntarily stripped enough times not to bother any more.  
The Undertaker returned, carrying several flat strips of ripped cotton and a jar of... some unlabelled substance. Kneeling next to me, he placed the jar and fabric on the floor beside himself. Uncapping the strange liquid, he turned to me and gently ran his fingers over my ribcage until he found the one that was damaged.  
With a kind smile, he dipped a piece of fabric into the jar and ran it between his fingers, soaking it and then removing the excess. He carefully laid it against my skin and ran his hand across it a few times. I winced at the pressure, but held still.  
He worked quickly, repeating the process several times until he had a solid sheet of these strips moulded around that half of my ribcage. He layered it up twice, and then drizzled a small amount of the dark substance in the jar over the bandage, running his fingers over it again to seal it down.  
“Let that dry,” he instructed, packing up his materials. “And I will return shortly.”  
He disappeared to wash his hands, leaving me to ponder what the hell was happening.  
I was in my torture master’s “hang out” room, just... hanging out.  
My heart still leapt in fear at the memories of that night, and yet, this was likely the safest place I had slept in a few years.  
The mortician returned and gazed down at my wound. I raised my eyebrow questioningly, and he crouched in front of me. I flinched, gritting my teeth and closing my eyes when his hand fell upon one of the scars on my torso; the one where he had stabbed me. But his fingertip merely grazed it as his smile dropped away.  
He traced the two along my palms as well before shifting his attention to my face. I laid fearfully still the entire time, allowing him to move my arms and hands however he wanted. As he looked over my right hand, he realized that two of my fingers pointed in a slightly wrong direction. Following the bones down, when he felt the mess of half-healed metacarpals beneath my skin, he grimaced.  
“When did you break your hand?” He asked softly.  
“You broke it,” I snapped, sharper than I had intended.  
His delicate features frowned. “I don’t remember that.”  
“It was in the deep freeze,” I elaborated, softer now.  
The Undertaker sighed and laid down next to me again. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I wish that those days hadn’t had to have happened,” he murmured sadly.  
I hummed in response and stared at the ceiling. One lantern in the far corner went out.  
“Do you ever get... bored, here?” I asked quietly.  
I heard him shift slightly. Then he rolled back over to me, and placed his chin in his hand, gazing down at me. His eyes were jaded with contemplation as he answered.  
“It gets... lonely. Drives a person a little bit mad,” he giggled. “But people will never stop dying, and therefore, I will never be entirely alone.”  
I felt my heart break a little bit for him.  
“What about you?” He asked, flipping his hand around and pointing a talon at me. “Do you have any friends, any real people that you know you can keep around?”  
“Of course not,” I huffed. “The lifestyle I lead is unforgiving in that regard.”  
“Do you not get lonely, then?” He murmured, folding his arms and leaning forwards on his elbows.  
I shrugged gently, trying not to disturb my rib. “I’m safer when I’m alone.”  
The Undertaker frowned sadly. “You trust nobody,” he whispered. “Nobody at all.”  
“Of course not,” I replied. “That’s the only reason I’m alive.”  
“I will change your mind,” he declared suddenly, flipping back over.  
“Wait, what?” I asked, pushing myself upright.  
As I shifted, he placed his hand on my chest, gently tapping the resin before pushing me back. I didn’t mean to let him, but he leaned his bodyweight against me until I sank down.  
“It’s not dry yet,” he murmured in warning, grinning and tapping his teeth with his nail.  
I shifted uneasily beneath his icy hand. “Uh... alright. What do you mean, change my mind?” I asked slowly.  
“Which word do you need defined?”  
I shoved him away. The action jarred my ribs more than I meant it to. A jolt of pain ripped through me, and I curled onto my side and gasped. The Undertaker’s eyes flashed with worry and he quickly gripped my arms, pulling them out to the sides and turning me onto my back. He held me still until the pain subsided and I stopped twitching.  
Glaring up at him, I spat:  
“You can let go now.”  
He chuckled, gazing down at me with... I couldn’t quite tell. Arrogance, almost?  
“Should I? I feel like I’m going to get punched if I do.”  
“You’re going to get punched if you don’t,” I growled, tensing the muscles in my arms. He felt them strain beneath his palms and glanced at them before looking back to me with a light smile.  
“Don’t be so hard on your body,” he advised, gently sitting back and sliding his hands off of me cautiously. “You need to heal.”  
Relenting my glare after a moment, I gently tapped at the bandage on my ribs. “It’s dry,” I commented.  
“Good,” he replied. “Feel free to put your robes back on.”  
I slid the black fabric back up my shoulders, leaving the front open. He laid himself down next to me again, oddly close, and I resisted the urge to shift away.  
I glanced sideways at him, his long white hair fanned out against the cushions.  
“Aren’t you worried I might kill you?” I asked.  
He burst out laughing and I blushed in humility, steeling my gaze. Opening his eyes, he smirked at me, placed a careless hand behind his head, and said,  
“Try it.”


	7. Chapter 7

I received more bandages that night. The mortician took enough pity upon me to wrap my middle finger and my ring finger on my right hand together in a cast, but other than that, he made simple covers for simple cuts and scrapes I had mysteriously acquired. I myself was lying face-up on the cushions again, staring at the ceiling, stunned beyond speech and wide-eyed.  
My hand shook as he wrapped it, and his icy fingers gently encircled my wrist to hold it still.  
“Y-you said y-you thought— that I— was ten years s-stronger, and you were t-ten years older,” I stammered.  
The mortician shrugged and giggled to himself, now seated to my right as he dressed my wounds once again.  
“That part is true.”  
“You made it sound like I could beat you in a fight,” I spat resentfully, my mind slowly but surely recovering from the thorough defeat I had just endured.  
“Now that is open to interpretation,” he held up a slender finger. “It’s not my fault you took it the wrong way.”  
“Took it the wrong way!” I shouted indignantly, sitting upright and yanking my hand from his grip. “What was I supposed to think? I should have been able to beat you!”  
The Undertaker chuckled and held his arms open, leaning back. “You’re welcome to try again, however, this time, I’ll be more hesitant to hold back.”  
I glared at him; a glare of pure hatred.  
“You could have brought me back here just to torture me again,” I growled.  
He lunged forwards suddenly. I yelped in surprise and held my arm in front of my face, but the Undertaker grabbed my wrist again and dragged me to him via my damaged hand. As I fell forwards in front of him, he gently ran his fingertips over my broken knuckles.  
“Yes,” he murmured, gripping my broken digits and applying a light amount of pressure.  
I winced and waited for the snap and the pain, grimacing away into my shoulder and tugging uselessly on my arm.  
“I could have,” he finished, switching his grip around to delicately support my palm between us.  
Cautiously opening my eyes, I glanced up at him. A light smile was all I could see, his silver hair shrouding his mystical features. The arm that was supporting mine was steady. After taking a few moments to suspiciously analyze him, I gripped his hand in return and pushed against him. Lifting myself up off of my knees slightly, I shifted backwards to settle myself next to the bizarre man once again.  
“So... why did you bring me here?” I asked, nervously toying with my fingers.  
He chuckled. I stiffened when I felt his hair draping across my neck and curled my fists. Leaning over my shoulder, the mortician wrapped one of his arms around my shoulders and patted my hands with the other, covering my wrists and palms with his skeletal fingers as he unbent my knuckles.  
I froze at the strange proximity. Not being used to anyone coming so close without attacking, I was suspicious of his intentions. His breath ran gently across my ear when he spoke.  
“This seems much more accurate to my memory of you,” he murmured. I pressed my eyes closed, tilting my head up and maintaining composure.  
“I don’t understand,” I whispered, my heart hammering from adrenaline as his hands moved up my arms. I felt his touch drag across the smooth fabric of the robes.  
“I remember you trembling, fidgety, and nervous,” he sighed, leaning his head against the back of my shoulder. “You have changed so much.”  
“You don’t... seem to have,” I replied slowly, cautiously relaxing as his palms wandered up my neck and felt along my jawline.  
The contact was bizarre, yet currently harmless it so seemed, and I allowed it to continue.  
“Ten years older,” he sighed.  
His ghostly hand ran up the front of my neck and I leaned my head back, suddenly too tired to be concerned with holding my own body up. He stiffened as I collapsed against him, his arms tightening around my shoulders.  
Relaxing slightly, the mortician chuckled.  
“What happened to all the mistrust, all of a sudden?” He murmured.  
I closed my eyes, turning to lean my cheek against his shoulder. “If you kill me, the world will be better off,” I said, and promptly fell asleep. 

When I woke up, I was alone on the cushions. Bright, warm sunlight was streaming in from the two large windows on the left wall, and I held up my arm against the beams as I slowly blinked my eyes open. Glancing around, I buttoned up the robes that I had fallen asleep in and carefully pushed myself to my feet. Gingerly touching the side of my chest, I breathed a sigh of relief when the resin cast took the weight off of my ribs. I glared at my broken fingers and stretched out my neck, arcing my spine backwards and yawning.  
The room was comfortably warm, the fire having died in the night and the sun now gently heating the floorboards. I scratched my head and carefully took a step forwards. Ensuring that the floor remained silent beneath me, I ghosted over to the door and cracked it open. Peeking through the doorframe, I could see down the steps into the main section of the shop. I could already feel the cold air from below leaking into the room, and I stepped back hesitantly.  
Slipping from the room and pushing my hair from my eyes, I silently closed the door behind me and slid along the wall of the stairs.  
As I descended, I listened for any signs of the Undertaker. Hearing none, I paused at the bottom of the stairs.  
I snaked around the corner and dropped into a crouch on the floor. The mortician was a few meters away from me, sitting at his counter and reading a book. His heels were up on the desktop as he leaned back in the chair, tilting it dangerously. I flinched when he flipped a page, but his attention remained innocently on the book.  
Rolling on my shoulder, I slid myself behind a coffin that was leaning against the wall. There was barely enough room for me to hide behind it, but my bare feet on the floor were silent as I balanced myself.  
The mortician remained unaware.  
Slowly, I shuffled out from behind the coffin. He was now directly in front of me. Carefully pushing myself to standing, I took a quiet step forwards. The Undertaker flipped the page again and I froze, heart hammering in my chest.  
I hadn’t forgotten the night before; however, I was convinced that on a full night’s sleep, and if I took him by surprise, I just might have a chance against this strange man.  
I took another step forwards, his long robes silently swirling around my legs. Three more steps. Three more steps and I would have him.  
Another step and he shifted in his chair. My heart almost burst from the adrenaline.  
Steeling myself, I leapt forwards and wrapped my arm around his throat. He jumped and the book tumbled to the floor. Pale hands reached up to pull against my arm and he rocked back, chair falling dangerously towards me. Gripping the armrest with my other hand, I swung around the chair as it fell and landed on him, forearm across his throat and legs wrapped around his waist. As the back of the chair hit the floor, his top hat tumbled off and his ghostly hair fanned out around him. He yelped in surprise, his eyes wide and stunned. I hovered my other hand above his face, clenched in a threatening fist, and he put an arm across in defence.  
When I withheld my strike, he cautiously lowered his elbow and looked up at me in confusion.  
“Good morning?” He questioned, voice strained against the pressure of my arm.  
Glaring icily down at him, I lifted my fist higher. He grimaced and put his hand hesitantly in front of his face, pale fingertips curling in fear. His other hand still pushed against the arm that I was pinning him with.  
After a tense moment of silence, other than my enraged breathing, he spoke again.  
“So, not a good morning, then,” he whispered.  
I narrowed my eyes. “Very pleasant, actually,” I hissed.  
“I’m glad to hear that,” he smiled uneasily. “Is there... some other way I can help you?”  
I shifted my grip, bunching my fingers in the fabric of his collar and hauling him up while maintaining the threatening fist above him. I ignored the dull ache that began in my broken knuckles. A small yelp of protest escaped him and his eyes went wide again. He held out his arms to try and balance, before turning his palms towards me to placate me.  
Now nose to nose with him, I held him at the uncomfortable level and tightened my grip.  
“Why have you brought me here?” I growled.  
The Undertaker’s breath was jumpy and shallow. I could feel it quickly brushing across my skin as he thought over how to respond, tongue against his teeth.  
“I don’t intend to hurt you,” he began, hands settling on the arm that was holding him hostage. “I simply couldn’t walk away from someone laying in the street, after having been hit by a carriage,” he elaborated, nimble fingers attempting to slowly disentangle my grip from his robes.  
“You did more damage to me than a carriage ever could, you hypocrite,” I hissed, my jaw beginning to ache for how hard I was clenching my teeth.  
He shot a worried glance at my fist. “Hence why I have even more to make up to you,” he murmured sadly. “Please, let me help you.”  
“I don’t need your help!” I screamed. “I don’t need anyone’s help!”  
The mortician flinched back and gripped my arm, fingers digging into my robes out of terror.  
I composed myself again, forcing my eyes closed and listening to the Undertaker’s nervous breaths.  
Releasing one long, angry sigh, I let him go. Not expecting the freedom, he flopped ungracefully down onto the back of the chair, coughing as air was knocked from his chest. He twisted, propping himself up on one elbow. I leaned back against his legs and thumped the back of my head against the seat of the chair, between his knees.  
“I don’t think you need anyone,” he rasped. “I just want to... to be nice to you,” he said, exasperated.  
“Why?” I snapped.  
“Because I feel guilty about what I did to you, and I like you on a base level,” he shrugged uneasily.  
I cocked my eyebrow and folded my arms. “You like me... on a base level? I’ve tortured people for fun,” I scoffed, leaning forwards and placing my hands on the floor on either side of him.  
He winced again and cringed away from me slightly.  
“That’s not something I hear commonly,” I added sceptically.  
“I know,” the Undertaker murmured. “But, I tortured you,” he glanced down at himself and raised his hands. “I’m not clean by any means myself. I’ve done things, unethical things, that I still don’t even truly regret. You match me,” he whispered sadly. “Better than anyone else I’ve ever met.”  
I slapped him across the face; really hard, in fact. He cried out as his head snapped to the side. Getting to my feet and stepping back, I braced my heel against one foot of the chair and planted my hands on the edge of the seat, leaning back and hauling it towards me. With my rage-fuelled efforts, the chair flipped back up, throwing the mortician forwards. He gasped and grabbed onto the armrests, shifting himself further into the chair as it switched.  
I glared at him again, hands still between his knees. Dragging the chair towards me, I chuckled inside when I saw that he looked completely terrified. His hair was dishevelled, there was floor dust on his shoulders, and his eyes were as wide as dinner plates. His knuckles were white against the chair, and his cheek was bright rosy red where my palm had lashed across. My two broken fingers were aching from having been used so forcefully.  
“That,” I spat, pointing my finger at his face. “Was specifically for using needles.”  
“I—“  
I whipped my hand across his cheek again, leaving behind an open cut as the cracking resin cast scraped across his flesh. A single dark crimson blood droplet leaked down his face. Shoving the chair backwards, I watched with gratification as it slid all the way into the wall. The mortician was jarred by the collision, jolting hard into the air with his hair snapping around himself.  
He made a strangled noise of pain and flopped forwards out of the chair, falling onto his hands and knees on the floor. Glancing up at me, he shakily placed a hand to his bleeding cheek.  
“And that?” He gasped.  
I shrugged, pushing myself up to sit on top of the desk, legs folded.  
“It made me feel a bit better,” I said, before holding my right hand forwards. “And I’ll probably need you to re-bandage these fingers.”  
The mortician chuckled and pushed himself to his feet. Suddenly, again, he was much taller than me, and I felt a tremor of fear lace my insides as he glanced at me. However, he simply giggled to himself, looked at his hand, which now had his blood on it, and turned on his heel to retrieve his top hat, black robes fanning out behind him.  
I placed my hands on the desk behind me and watched as he stopped to pick it up, laying it carefully on the chair before moving to a shelf across the room.  
His sleeves fell back as he reached up to grab the jar and cotton strips. Approaching me with a light smile, he beckoned towards himself. I held out my hand, and he placed the jar on the desk next to me. I felt oddly trapped with him so close, and without my feet on the floor. Immediately, I calculated that if anything were to go wrong, I could simply roll backwards off the desk; until then, I would force myself to patiently sit at his calling.  
Now directly before me, he carefully took my wrist in his hand and flipped it, so that my palm was facing upwards. He prepared a strip with the resin and wrapped it around my fingers, smoothing out the ridges and air bubbles that formed beneath as he went. I analyzed his actions, every moment fearing that he would somehow hurt me again.  
It only took two strips to repair the jagged bandage.  
“Let that dry,” he murmured, stepping back and collecting the jar. “And stop abusing people, and maybe your bones will have a chance to heal.”  
“Abusing people is my profession,” I stated bluntly, turning my hand over and glancing at my knuckles. “I’m hardly going to stop now.”  
The Undertaker chuckled and touched his cheek gently, brilliant green eyes shadowed by white lashes as he glanced at his fingertips again.  
“You’re still bleeding,” I affirmed.  
He hummed. “It will stop soon,” he murmured, placing the jar back on the shelf from whence it came and leaning back against the wall.  
Crossing his arms across his chest, he raised an eyebrow. “What would you like to do today?”  
I shrugged. “My daily routine includes finding reasons to torment my enemies, torturing for money, or getting high. So... you decide.”  
“I prepare dead people, and I have none of those in right now,” he sighed sadly and gestures at the book. “Hence the reading habit.”  
“Well, fucking kill me then,” I sighed, mirroring his position and leaning back against the desk. “Before boredom does.”  
He burst out laughing, rocking forwards before collapsing onto the floor in a pile of giggling robes and hair.  
I analyzed my nails while I waited for him to finish his fit.  
“P-perhaps,” he giggled. “I should wash out your mouth.”  
“I see no soap or water,” I spat, spreading my hands wide and glaring challengingly down at him as he dragged his pale fingers through his spectral locks. “And as such, I will say what I want.”  
He leaned back on his arm and stared mischievously at me from under his lashes.  
“I could do it with my tongue if you prefer,” he purred, curling a silver strand round his long black talon, luminescent eyes locked against my glare.  
A tense moment of silence followed as my mouth fell agape.  
Then it was my turn to burst out in awkward laughter. Pointing a hesitant finger at him, I blushed and glanced at the floor.  
“Did you hear what you just said?” I asked, incredulous.  
“If I just insinuated that I’d willingly put my tongue in your mouth, I think so,” he shrugged, clapping a palm over his ear and raising his eyebrows.  
I scoffed at him, turning furiously red and pinching the bridge of my nose.  
“You can’t be serious,” I muttered. “Criminals have more class than you.”  
“Criminals have more ass than you,” he smirked, coughing into his elbow and looking up at the ceiling innocently.  
I swore and flew at him, tackling him and pinning him down by his hair.  
“You bastard,” I hissed. “How dare you even make such vulgar comments to me?”  
The Undertaker chuckled and held his free hands up, wiggling his fingers mockingly.  
“Got you on top of me real quick, didn’t it, luv?”  
His hands fell upon the tops of my legs and his fingers drummed lightly against the fabric of the robes. Recoiling in disgust, I slapped his hands away. He grabbed onto my wrists and yanked me down. Barely holding myself above the bizarre mortician, I blew hair out of my face and narrowed my eyes at him.  
“What happened to being nice to me?” I whined, sagging dramatically.  
The Undertaker cackled. “This is me being nice.”  
Suddenly he rolled and flipped us. Now I was stuck with his hips atop mine and legs between mine, him holding my wrists.  
“Well,” he murmured, glancing down at our position. “If that isn’t just nifty.”  
“Don’t get any ideas,” I snapped, writhing in an effort to escape his grip.  
“Are you shyyyyyyy?” He whispered, leaning down to hover just above me. I maintained eye contact.  
“If you put your tongue anywhere near my mouth, I’ll bite it right the fuck off!” I screeched.  
“What about here?” He asked innocently, and he licked my neck before I could even react.  
Immediately, I jerked away from him with a confused and startled look.  
“Don’t you ev—“  
“Or what if I keep it far away?” He asked. “Does consent matter to you at all?” I snapped.  
The mortician above me shrugged. “Not usually, but regardless, I know how you truly think,” he replied.  
I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Do you now?”  
He nodded with a twisted smile and leaned forwards until his mouth was pressed uncomfortably against my ear.  
“Easy trick,” he breathed. “I watched your pupils dilate.”  
“You said that happened when it was something you fear!” I snapped, jerking my head away from him, straining a muscle in my neck in the process.  
He chuckled and moved his head to continue hovering just above me menacingly.  
“Or something you’re attracted to,” he hummed.  
I shifted my eyes back to his and maintained a glare. “Or fear,” I hissed again.  
“You fear me?” He giggled delightedly. “Somehow, I find that harder to believe than you being attracted to me.”  
I blushed and thrashed, pulling at my arms and kicking my legs.  
“Get off of me!” I screamed, voice echoing around the shop.  
The mortician flicked hair out of his face and shrugged. “Okay,” he quipped, rolling again. I winced as he rocked us, flipping himself onto his back and lifting me on top of him.  
I made to leap off, but his pale hands wrapped around my wrists and yanked me back down.  
“Now,” I snarled, gritting my teeth. “Let go of me.”  
He giggled, and after a dramatic moment of silence, he wiggles his fingers and released his hold.  
I hit him across the face with my left hand. Being right-handed, I didn’t do very much damage, but it caught him off-guard and he gasped and placed his palm on the contact site.  
Meanwhile, I leapt to my feet and jumped back from him, stumbling on the long black robes and falling back to the floor about five feet away.  
I covered my face with my sleeves. The long fabric created the perfect sensory room; warm and dark and isolated. My breathing was all I could hear, rapid at first before slowly coming to a restful sigh.  
Listening for the mortician, I laid still while he pushed himself to his feet and dusted himself off.  
“Well,” he sighed, and I could hear him smirking, just as bad as the Earl when he had me trapped in the stupid bloody box. “That was fun.”  
“For you,” I hissed from beneath my robes.  
“Hmm?” He asked, and I lifted a sleeve and repeated my snide comment before retreating into my lair.  
My core tensed up when I heard his footsteps approach me. I held deathly still when he stopped next to me and chuckled.  
Then he grabbed the front of my robes and hauled me straight to my feet, causing me to screech in panic. He wrapped his arms tightly around my shoulders and held me to him, like some sort of black and silver snake.  
“Didn’t quite catch that,” he purred, leaning down.  
Still pressed to him by his grip, I tried to twist my shoulders away to hit him. As I threw my fist forwards, it stopped mid-flight, and I realized that the long black sleeves of my robes had both been trapped between our torsos. I glared at my little fabric stump that was now bunched angrily and shook it futilely back and forth a couple times.  
“That’s not fair!” I cried.  
“What’s not fair? Your... predicament?” He tsked in false sympathy, malicious grin working its way onto his face. “How about I take your mind off it?”  
As I began to respond, he ducked his head down and gently placed his mouth against mine.  
My mind went blank.  
He was warm. He was soft. It was very gentle, very hesitant. His lips were not demanding, nor were they coated in moonshine, which at the time is all I had experienced.  
My hands stilled as he tightened his grip on me slightly, breaking away for a moment. Before I could even find words he tilted his head the other way and kissed me again.  
The rest of the room didn’t matter. The rest of the world didn’t matter. My broken rib didn’t matter, my years of running and hiding and fighting were suddenly meaningless. If it was not for this moment, then was it for anything at all?  
His arms slowly uncoiled themselves from around me, although one of his hands settled on my lower back. His other gently tucked itself beneath my jaw, quietly and comfortingly resting along my neck. I understood. He had given me room to shove him back if I so chose, or to hit him, as was my preferred method.  
I did neither. Don’t get me wrong— I wanted to, but that part of my brain had been turned off, and now I wanted to do this more instead.  
I didn’t move much the entire time; my heart was hammering, but my veins were frozen still. Greetings his lips with a slightly open mouth repeatedly was all I could do, and hope that it was enough for him.  
Eventually he pulled back. His demeanour was less formidable, and his cheeks were redder than they typically were.  
Subconscious about my own blush, I chuckled and tucked my face between my hands, swaying my hips awkwardly as I composed myself.  
The Undertaker, to his credit, glanced away from me as I did so, brushing his hair back from his face and coughing once into his elbow to clear his own rouge.  
“Thanks,” he said, voice catching a little bit in his pale throat.  
I could only nod and smile.


	8. Chapter 8

The day progressed. The mortician insisted on washing the robes I had stolen so long ago. I grinned triumphantly and he grimaced when he dipped them beneath the water; blood that had long been trapped beneath the fibres leaked out, turning the wash dark pink. Glaring pointedly at me, the Undertaker removed his hands, scarlet liquid dripping from his pale fingertips.  
“Do you never wash this?” He demanded, poking my sternum hard in admonishment. I batted his hand away.  
“Occasionally, but, not enough to remove all the stains.”  
“That’s absolutely disgusting,” he chided, stepping over to a shelf and picking up a set of tongs.  
I quirked my eyebrow and leaned back against the desk. “You’re a mortician, and you’re upset by a little blood?”  
“A little?” He scoffed, pushing his hair back from his face.  
I did miss those eyes.  
“A little,” he repeated incredulously, gesturing at the now dark crimson basin with the tongs. “Are you joking?”  
I shrugged, stepping towards him and gazing down at the water with indifference.  
“A little,” I repeated, folding my arms and leaning back.  
From beneath his bangs, the mortician’s glowing eyes narrowed.  
“Perhaps I should help you take a closer look,” he growled, tapping the tongs together threateningly, a dark grin forming across his mouth.  
“What happened to all the guilt?” I snapped, taking a single step away from him and unfolding my arms.  
He pressed the tongs against his lips. “It’s there. It gets easily overshadowed by more prominent emotions,” he murmured. “And now, I know what you can take.”  
“Sadist,” I hissed.  
The Undertaker shrugged, silver hair falling across one side of his face. “So be it.”  
“Y-you’re not putting me under that water,” I warned, holding up my non-bandaged hand. I cursed my tongue for stuttering; I felt so much stronger than I could force myself to sound.  
The mortician quirked his eyebrows. “No,” he smiled after a moment. “That wouldn’t be any fun. I’ve already done that.”  
Taking a step towards me, he flicked his hair back from his face again.  
I stood my ground. The Undertaker drifted right up in front of me, and I glared up into his grin.  
Bending down until he was eye-level with me, he tilted his head and put his mouth next to mine. I felt the heat from his body, the gentle caress of his hair against my skin.  
“I could make you beg,” he whispered. “For your life, for mercy, for anything.”  
“I’ve never begged in my life,” I snarled.  
He chuckled. “I seem to remember otherwise.”  
Blushing furiously, I reared back to put my fist in his chest. He blocked my punch with the tongs, twisting them downwards and sending me off balance. Immediately, he spun on his heel and kicked my side, sending me to the floor.  
Falling back, I had no time to even plant my hands against the concrete before the mortician was on top of me. His legs went across my hips, and flashbacks to the hot knife torture began to cross my mind. Before I could even think about an escape plan, the metal claws of the tongs gripped my trachea, the edges digging in between the muscles of my neck and the cartilage of my larynx. I shrieked in pain as it punctured my skin. Blood began to pulse gently from the wounds, quickly dripping down the back of my neck.  
Then his pale hand jerked to the side, and he twisted the tongs that were stabbing my throat. My body shuddered as my gag reflex was triggered, and somehow my brain formulated a response to fight back.  
I hit the tongs away. The relief my body accepted as the metal intrusion slid from my neck was one of the best feelings I’d ever experienced.  
The Undertaker watched impassively as the tongs flew away across the room. Clattering to the floor several yards away, they sat safely isolated. I twisted my torso and propped myself up on my elbow. Pressing my palm to my neck, my eyes widened when I felt how much blood was already drained.  
“That’s fine,” the Undertaker purred, still staring at the tongs.  
Then his gaze shifted down to me.  
“I can do it myself.”  
Steeling myself, I lunged forwards. Grabbing onto his collar with my blood-soaked hand, I held my other fist back over my shoulder threateningly.  
The mortician lifted his hand and waved. I threw my arm forwards. His palm caught my hand and pushed it to the floor. Pulling back, I writhed and kicked, yanking hard on my arm with no success.  
The mortician leaned forwards and pressed himself down on top of me. I gasped for breath beneath him, wincing when he came close.  
Then I felt his mouth against my ear. I pushed against him with my free hand. There was a brief scuffle where I continued to pull my hand away while he attempted to catch it. Shortly, his pale fingers ensnared my wrist and pinned it to the floor above my head.  
I screamed in rage, but the sound turned to a screech of pain when his teeth sank into my neck.  
His silver hair fell across my vision and I twisted my shoulders again, feeling the flesh beneath his mouth tear with my movement. Pulling back, he ran his tongue across his teeth and gazed down at me. It wasn’t mischievous, or mocking; his face was nearly impassive, a cold and light smile splitting beneath half-hidden orbs.  
His mouth was stained scarlet.  
“Let me go!” I shouted, and he released my hands.  
Confused, I began to scramble away when his fingertips curled into my collar. The mortician stood and hauled me with him. As soon as my feet were off the floor, I kicked off of him, but he maintained his grip. I swung outwards before my momentum carried me back towards the Undertaker. Wrapping my legs around his waist, I took us back to the floor, this time with me on top. The second his back hit the concrete, the Undertaker slid his slender fingers up around my bloodied neck. My eyes widened when my breathing was suddenly restricted. Hands flying up, I pulled at his fingers. It was in vain; he was much stronger than I was, despite his grip being slick with blood. Bruising pain began to bloom in my throat where his fingertips pressed, and I coughed, jerking away from him.  
None of my attempts yielded anything productive. I began to feel the familiar desperation for air and yanked back in my panic.  
Maintaining his grip, the mortician slowly pushed me back until we were both sitting upright with my legs still wrapped around his waist.  
With his cold hands around my neck, he dragged me close against him. His lips returned to my ear as I flailed and scratched at his hands.  
“Go on,” he murmured. “Beg for air.”  
Through the haze of blindness and panic, I shook my head slightly.  
The Undertaker sighed and shook me hard, the changing pressure causing me to gag again. I heard him giggle in response as he held me to him again. My hands fell limp at my sides, my fingertips dangling lightly at the floor. Without oxygen, my muscles began to fail and I fell against the mortician, head tilted back and mouth open, gasping for oxygen as his fingers still dug in painfully against my preexisting wounds.  
The second wave of fire entered my lungs. Despite the amount that I had been tortured since that first night, the Undertaker was still the only one who had used strangulation as a pain tactic. I hated it.  
My mind went under the water.  
I felt his body against mine. Part of me still felt the freezing basin that I had been repeatedly dunked in.  
I began to cry.  
Hot tears coursed down my cheeks. Some choked noise scraped its way out of my throat, and the mortician eased the pressure on my throat just slightly. I could tell he was watching my face, and I slowly pulled in the minute amount of air he allowed me. Lifting my head up to look at him, I coughed and placed my hand upon his wrist.  
“P-please,” I choked, gripping his arm hard for support. “P-p-please!”  
The Undertaker chuckled darkly and suddenly I was free.  
I collapsed against the floor in a weak puddle of blood and laboured breathing.  
I put my face against the cool stone and placed my palm against my neck.  
I had a distinct revelation, then, lying on the floor of the cold shop, both bandaged and bleeding by the will of the same man; out there on the streets, I was one of the bigger fish in the pond. But in here, I was nothing.  
I was little.  
At that moment, a small bell hanging by the door chimed.  
The Undertaker sighed, shook his hair back over his face, and wiped the slippery blood from his hands in the many folds of his dark robes. Stepping to the door, he pulled it open. I turned my face away in shame as light spilled in from the streets, and I heard a small gasp as two green sets of footsteps entered the shop.  
The door was shut, and I flipped myself over, preparing to give the newcomers a solid glare. My eyes landed on a familiar face, barely appearing two years older.  
Ciel frowned, eyes lighting up with an emotion I could not read.  
“Undertaker,” Ciel hissed, staring at me. “Is... this...?”  
“Yes, my lord,” he chuckled. “Feel free to inspect.”  
“Pass,” Ciel stammered, and Sebastian stepped towards me instead, glancing at Ciel as he approached.  
I narrowed my eyes, still in pain from my injuries, and shifted my gaze between the demon and the mortician.  
Sebastian knelt in front of me and reached out to tilt my chin up. I hit his hand away and growled in warning.  
His fingers withdrew, but he still hovered above me, gazing at my bloodied throat with something like concern. The mortician tapped his way towards us and stood next to Sebastian.  
“How long have you had them for without our knowledge?” Sebastian asked, glancing up at the mortician.  
The Undertaker waved his hand dismissively. “Only a couple days. I fixed them up after they were hit by a carriage. Today, they were... belligerent.”  
“In fact,” I coughed, the vibration of my voice stinging my injuries. “I wasn’t, young lord,” I rasped to Ciel. Then I looked at Sebastian. “He th-threatened me with more w-water torture. I tried t-to hold my ground. I barely even f-fought back, look! He’s got no injuries,” I cried, waving my hand at the apathetic mortician. Sebastian turned to glance at him.  
“Is that true, Undertaker?” Ciel called, still not looking at me.  
With a light giggle, the mortician tapped his lips with his index finger and swayed back and forth. “Pretty much.”  
Sebastian, meanwhile, arose from his crouch and walked away from me, further into the shop. Instead of following him with my gaze, I collapsed forwards onto the floor, beginning to feel dizzy.  
The mortician also tapped away, heading to the shelf where bandages were kept.  
Bending at the waist, the demon picked something up off the floor. I saw the metal flash in his hands as I rolled over to watch.  
He had found the tongs, and he held them up to the dim light of the shop. A tiny amount of red glistened on their edges, and he looked back at my throat, sudden clarity coming to his eyes.  
Meanwhile, the Undertaker drifted back over to me and knelt behind me. I winced as he hooked his hands beneath my shoulders and pulled me up against him, tilting my chin up and resting my head against his shoulder. Long silver hair draped down my front as he began to carefully wind a long strip of bandage around my throat several times. The pressure from the coverings felt good, and I sighed and closed my eyes as he ripped the cotton and tucked the end into the rest of the wrappings. He pulled me to my feet, and as soon as I had my balance, I pushed away from him, stumbling to a casket and haphazardly falling to sit on its surface. Sebastian put the tongs back on the floor and strode back over to stand loyally beside Ciel, and the entire room was at a silent standoff.  
“Get out,” Ciel said to me, and I frowned in confusion, glancing at Sebastian.  
“My master wishes to ensure that you are not being held captive,” Sebastian clarified. “And bids you leave while we... supervise.”  
Stunned, I blinked at the young earl. He still refused to look at me, and instead was glaring coldly at the Undertaker, who was also seated on a coffin, idly playing with his hair.  
I cautiously slid off of the casket I was sitting on, and walked silently to the basin of red water, retrieving what I now considered to be my robes. Wringing them out, I wrapped the wet fabric into a little ball, glanced around the shop, and fled out into the street once again.


	9. Chapter 9

I kicked down the door to the whorehouse and held up my weapon; a cricket bat with nails put through it.  
Three women, scantily clad and smoking, glared at me as I entered, but their expressions turned to fear when I cocked the bat over my shoulder and grinned at them.  
“Mornin’ ladies,” I snickered, swinging the bat in practise a couple times. “Sorry for the surprise visit, but I’m afraid that I’ve been... evicted? Yeah, evicted is the right word. Anyways,” I continued, leaning against the bat like a cane before gesturing at the doorway behind me. “Please now exit my new house.”  
“And ‘o are you to be ordering us aroun’ then?” One of the women spat, jerking her chin at me.  
Focusing my attention on her, I stepped to her chair and put my foot up on the edge, propping the bat above my shoulder again. I smiled at her, then glanced at the other two women.  
“Allow me to introduce myself,” I giggled, placing my hand against my black-clad chest. “My name is Langdon Coarse. Or, Vitae Mortem, if you prefer.”  
I grinned as the blonde one of the three, a thin girl sitting off to my right, took a sharp intake of breath and froze up in her chair. Flashing my teeth maliciously, I turned to the other two, keeping my foot on the leader’s chair.  
“And if you’re questioning what that means, you should also be questioning whether or not you want to live through the worst pain of your life. After all,” I cackled, sliding away from the chair and dragging my bat on the floor. “I don’t do the whole killing thing, but I can swing this at-“  
Hefting the club over my shoulders, I gripped it hard with both hands and swung it at the wall. It sank into the wood and paper, ripping through it like foam. Yanking it back out, I stumbled away from the gaping hole I left in the wall and idly picked wooden beam bits off of the nails.  
“-at 85 miles per hour, which is easily enough to break the human femur bone which is this great long one right here,” I sighed, running my fingers up my thigh to show them. I pulled out my pocket watch. “And I’ll give you three a head start of... five seconds,” I concluded, glaring up at them from under my brows. All of them stared at me in terror.  
I quirked my eyebrow. “Four.”  
The three women leapt forwards and ran out the door, barely shoving past each other and stumbling out into the street.  
“Well,” I murmured to myself, snapping my pocket-watch shut. “That was easy.”  
I tossed the bat to the side and softly shut the door.  
I had been here before on drug business. I already knew the layout of the building; two levels, the first comprised of a main entrance/living room, a kitchen and a washroom, and the upper being four separate and equal bedrooms. With my secret knowledge, I also happened to be privy to the basement. There was a trapdoor in the far northwest corner of the first level, hidden beneath a table. Under that was what the women had used as a drug cellar- something I decided to construct my personal bedroom and hideout from.  
Heading upstairs, I wrinkled my face at all the disgusting mattresses that littered all four of the rooms. I didn’t want to touch them. So I didn’t; that’s where my “guests” could stay, when I needed them to. I double-checked that all of the windows were bolted and boarded and sealed.  
It took me a couple of days of packaging the few drugs left in the cellar and trading them for blankets and a few lamps, as well as a decent sum of money, which I kept in my personal room, of course.  
I had one lamp on each floor and one in my abode, and I tidied up the living space. I remained the same; although, I had new scars along my neck. One person asked me about them and I sent him home missing half of his foot. My practise was going well, and the underground began referring to me as Doctor Mortem.  
The word Doctor had a dark ring to it that I appreciated, so I rolled with it.  
Formally, Doctor Vitae Mortem. Dr. M was enigmatic enough to still grip the hearts of criminals and civilians alike, however.  
As criminal masterminds like myself tend to do, I acquired a posse of street rats that I quickly turned into sadistic torture aficionados. Despite my far reach, I maintained a small group- I never was one for numbers.  
There was one youngster, about fifteen, who I had hardened into an absolute machine. He obeyed every word of mine happily. He practically lived for the bloodshed, in a frighteningly hyper sort of way. I still operated on the no-kill basis, and there were harsh penalties for any of my minions who disobeyed.  
Once, a boy named Dan had slit a woman’s throat. I’m not sure why he even did it, but criminal children are bound to be unstable.  
Regardless, I forced Ethan to dole out the punishments, simultaneously ensuring his skill in the craft of torture and his obedience to me.  
Ethan is now my right-hand man, undoubtedly. I’ve given him the permission to recruit his own cronies and reinforcements. Every once in a while, I see one of them disappear, and I smile to myself.  
I send them out to fetch the victims, or if I’m bored of one, I let Ethan at them for a while.  
Ethan is not small. He is tall, taller than I was at that age. I myself am only a couple years older than I was when I last fled the morgue, and he is ten years my junior, but he is strong enough from fighting in the streets that with even only one more bully tag-along, he’s intimidating. He’s got sandy blond hair that hangs around his frequently bruised face in a halo. His skin is dark and his eyes are green.  
I was actually cleaning some of my favourite tools at the basin on the first floor when he burst through the door. At the intrusion, I threw the icepick I was holding as hard as I could.  
Ethan ducked beneath it and the boy standing behind him, Ned, caught it.  
I didn’t like Ned. Or, I did, because he was useful- he was just a bit weird. Small and silent, his reflexes and aim were unnatural. He was mostly the scout for the group, and he’d been part of the family for seven months now.  
“Ethan,” I smiled. “What are you doing here so early?”  
The blonde clapped his hands together, grinning wildly, and I moved closer to him.  
“We have got a present for you, boss,” he chuckled, his excitement barely contained in his wiry form.  
I glanced at Ned, raising my eyebrow. “Have you now?”  
Practically bouncing from foot to foot, Ethan gestured at Ned.  
Ned turned and poked his head out the door and waved at someone down the street.  
Three more youths, two faces that I recognized and one that was new, shuffled in through the doorway, dragging something between them.  
They threw the poor victim on the floor at my feet. My heart dropped.  
As soon as the long silver hair flipped forwards onto the floor, I knew what it was they had brought me.  
I stared at Ethan, wondering if he truly wanted to die, before I realized the implications of the... gift.  
There the mortician was. Unconscious at my feet. As I had been so many times at his.  
Slowly, I felt a sick, elated grin split my features.  
“Who found him?” I asked, looking at all the children.  
“She did,” Ned pointed to one of the faces I recognized. I threw the girl a coin and she caught it. The other two teens smiled at her, and something close to pride fluttered through my heart.  
Ethan finally burst. “Do you like it?”  
“Ethan,” I said, spinning on my heel to face him. “You have done wonderfully.”  
His eyes practically glowed with the praise.  
“C-can I help?” He squeaked, hands shivering as he clasped them together. What a psycho this kid was turning out to be.  
I lifted my eyebrow, considering the request.  
“At some point, yes,” I said slowly, and he fist-pumped the air. “But let me have my fun first.”  
“Sure thing,” he nodded and laughed delightedly.  
Switching my gaze back to the Undertaker, I addressed the group.  
“Take him upstairs,” I commanded. “Southeast room. Make sure,” I said gravely, looking each of them in the eye in turn. “That he is restrained. PROPERLY. Do not forget who we are dealing with, or you may well end up looking like me if you are not careful enough, yes?”  
They all nodded, wide-eyed, pale, and eager.  
As the smaller ones proceeded to drag the mortician up the stairs, I grabbed Ethan by the collar of his shirt and hauled him to the corner of the room.  
“How did they get him?” I whispered harshly. “That man is practically untouchable!”  
Ethan snickered and pulled at my hand, enjoying the challenge of escaping my grip.  
Of course, I didn’t let him, but he continued to squirm whilst he explained.  
“We caught him after he had already fought someone else,” he grinned. “Ned’s been training Jamie and she scouted it by accident, from on top of the bank. He was in the alley when we all got there, fighting two other guys; one in red and one in black. The other two had weapons, boss, like you wouldn’t believe- one of them was loud- anyways, he didn’t have that scythe you described. Must ’ave left it at home! They roughed him up good ‘fore he chased them both away by stealing the black one’s weapon. As soon as he tossed the metal away, we saw that he was limping, and we all attacked him at once. Of course from your description we knew who it was-“  
I clapped my hand over his busy mouth and he giggled.  
Narrowing my eyes at him, I glanced down at my grip- his fingers were motionless atop mine.  
“Go on, then,” I challenged, gesturing at my hand.  
He shifted his attention to where I indicated, and twisted his hands hard. It’s a method of escape that chokes oneself quite hard for a moment. The trick is that it forces the assailant to their knees unless they want a broken wrist. I spun and fell, and he danced away from me with shining eyes.  
“Good job,” I stated, and pulled a small sum of cash from the pockets on my robes.  
“Go take your groupies for some food and such. New clothes if anyone needs them,” I instructed, handing him the money.  
He took it and nodded, and headed upstairs.  
Ten minutes later the group filed down the stairs and out the door. I watched them go, having resumed my tool maintenance.  
Idly polishing the icepick, I wondered how far I could go with the mortician, what his pain resistance would be like. The thought had occurred to me that he was not, in fact, human- but I couldn’t surmise much more than that.  
I would wait an hour, I decided, before I went up.  
I wanted him to be awake.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so this chapter obviously is different than what the theme of the story has been. I personally am typically on the sub side of pain, and so writing this was actually an interesting challenge! I apologize if it’s not quite up to par, but it should be okay and I promise it will sort of switch back after this... I don’t want to give away too much, tho. Enjoy !

The entire period of waiting time that I had burdened myself with I did nothing but pace, back and forth, wearing a pattern in the dust on the cold dirt floor. Chewing at my nails, I glanced repeatedly at my torture tools, occasionally petting them for comfort. As the half hour mark approached, I lit a fire and threw seven entire candles into a pot above it. Boiling wax was a method of pain-infliction that I had discovered myself. You could seal things superficially with it, as well. One of my favourite things to do to someone was stab them open, somewhere, and immediately pour the burning wax overtop, where it would scald before solidifying almost instantly. Half-cauterization.   
I watched the wax melt, sitting on a steel chair by the pot with my chin in my hand.   
What would I say when I walked into the room?  
It had been two years.   
Reflecting upon my relationship with the mortician, I was aware that it was bizarre. We kissed, for heaven’s sake. One thing I still was unsure of was how far he planned to take the second round of torture before the earl interrupted. Would he have killed me?   
My eyes jaded over as I poked the fire occasionally. This torture method’s preparation also made the first floor warm, and it smelled nice, which were two bonuses that I never failed to enjoy.   
Five minutes now.  
Was he even awake? Was he confused?   
After the last minute chimed, I leapt up from my chair. My tailbone was tingling with nervous energy as I placed a few of the torture tools into a bag. The tough part about the wax was that I couldn’t move the pot upstairs, and instead had to incapacitate the victim enough that they couldn’t flee when I chucked them down here.   
Up onto my shoulder went the cloth handle of the bag. I made my way up the stairs, as quietly as I could.   
Only one of the doors to the four rooms was closed. The southeast one.   
I had instructed Ethan to come back ten minutes past the hour, with one of the children in tow. I wanted them to... make a scene. It would give the mortician’s heart some good exercise when he heard it through the wall. Of course, Ethan wouldn’t really torture the kid, unless they provided an unsatisfactory performance... I assumed. Then they could go back to shopping.   
I took a deep breath, and pushed open the door. Without looking at the sheet-less bed in the corner, I kicked the door closed behind me and locked it. A very simple lock— none of my patients were ever untied unless I was undoubtedly physically stronger than them. Locks were for good people. Locks did not belong here.   
Allowing my hand to slide off the doorknob, I dropped my bag from my shoulder and allowed all the metal inside to rattle together as it hit the floor. Then I turned around in that heavy silence. I faced him with a grin.   
And glory to the sun, he was awake— very much awake.   
The mortician’s skin was cut and bruised. The kids had stripped him of his top layers, knowing that I preferred to work with skin. In any other situation, the position would have been considered fairly sexy. But here...  
Well, no, it was still sexy.   
His elegant silver hair was stained with his own blood in some places. There was a fresh cut above his eyebrow. His long robes were nowhere to be seen, exposing his chest and arms, just as pale and scarred as his face. In proper form as I had taught them, his wrists were bound quite tightly above his head. My technique involved a layer of tight rope, which wound very close to itself over and over at the narrowest part of the arm. That was directly looped around the metal bed frame and tied tightly, each end of the intricate knot also extending to the far reaches of each bedpost and ending there. There was no chance for the restrained person to even reach any of the knots, wiggle from any loops, or untie anything on their own.   
Over that, for safety and control, a chain was wrapped twice around the Undertaker’s throat before meeting the rope at his wrists and wrapping around the bed frame in the same manner. A cloth gag was across his mouth.   
I noted with some satisfaction that the children had also tied down his legs; a procedure not typically followed, as the wrist restraints are so extensive that one cannot even really move. Ropes encircled him from his knees all the way down to his ankles and then down to the legs of the bed.   
He was a mess, and it was delightful.   
When we made eye contact, his beautiful orbs widened in surprise and terror, and his shoulders twisted away from me automatically.   
I waved. “Good evening,” I purred.   
He made a weak noise, eyes still locked on me.   
Kicking the bag half-heartedly with one foot, I strutted forwards and sat on the edge of the bed next to him, humming the tune of “Danny Boy”. Softly, I placed my hand against his lean stomach. I felt the muscles flinch away, and another muffled sound of protest was released.   
I smirked at him, and he stared up at me. “Do you have any idea where you are?” I asked after a moment, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.   
He grimaced and shook his head slightly. I nodded appreciatively.   
“The kids did well today,” I murmured serenely, watching his expression change.   
“Yes,” I affirmed, chuckling at his skepticism. “I have children now. I’m not sure how many. At the moment, I think five.”   
The mortician closed his eyes and leaned his head against his arm.   
“They’re the ones who found you and brought you to me. Oh, this is our home, by the way,” I added, lifting my hands in a shrug. “Welcome. It’s also my clinic. You are the next patient,” I cackled, placing my hand alongside his face and turning him back to look at me. His entire body stiffened at the contact.   
“Oh, are you scared?” I whispered mockingly, leaning forwards so that I was only inches from him. He twisted again but I gripped his jaw tightly.   
“You have every reason to be,” I continued, still in hushed tones.   
Right on time I heard the door bang open downstairs. Some poor soul was already screaming.  
The Undertaker’s eyes flew open and stared in the vague direction of the sound, horrified. The youth’s screams echoed about the sound-proofed house, and I heard the kid cry out sharply as Ethan undoubtedly threw him to the ground. The front door slammed shut moments later.   
“GET UP!” I heard Ethan scream. The kid gasped and made a horrible choking sound before beginning to cry and beg. It was convincing, even to me— I listened, frowning with dramatized pity as the youth was dragged up the stairs and into the room next to us.   
“P-LEASE!!!” The child screamed, the desperate shaking inhales one is forced to do when in complete panic wracking his voice.   
I winced along with the Undertaker when I heard Ethan sharply slap the boy. The kid cried out and I heard his body fall to the floor.   
There was a moment of quiet, and then the child began screaming for real. It hurt my ears. The voice was caught in varying sobs every now and again, and I continued to grimace while this maintained for a straight minute. Ethan laughed maniacally the entire time.   
Then, at one point, we heard, “I’ll do anything!” and “Not that one, PLEASE—“ followed by a loud bang.   
Then there was only silence.   
“That would be Ethan,” I said after a few moments.   
I turned back to the mortician. He was trembling, wide-eyed and trying to shake his way out of the gag. .   
I laughed. “You’ll get your turn with him later. I’ll be right back,” I murmured, planting a kiss against his forehead. “Just stay here a moment, would ya?”  
With that I exited the room. Closing the southeast door behind me, I headed to the northeast corner. I strolled in confidently.   
Ethan was kneeling on the floor, holding another child to his chest. His hand was over the youths mouth while the boy, Tommy Blue, wept silently into Ethan’s shirt. Tommy had a few long cuts down his arms and a blooming bruise on his cheek. His arms cradling the child carefully, Ethan was murmuring comforting words into Tommy’s ear and rubbing his shoulders lightly.   
“You didn’t tell him, did you?” I hummed, quiet enough that the Undertaker would not understand what was being said.   
Ethan shook his head. “No. I told him after I hit the bed frame with the hammer that if he was quiet he could get another part of my shares,” he explained.   
Tommy Blue was indeed trying his hardest to cry as quietly as possible.   
I knelt down and rubbed his shoulder as well.   
“Well done, you scared him near to death,” I chuckled. “Take him downstairs and fix him up and... do all that fun stuff.”  
Ethan nodded and lifted the boy, a small twelve-year old, onto his hip.   
I opened the door as Ethan headed out. Waving them away, I re-entered the mortician’s cell.   
“I was right,” I said, clicking the door behind me. “It was Ethan. Oh, don’t worry,” I assured him as he yelped something against the gag. “You’ll get your turn with him, I’m sure. He’s very enthusiastic about our work,” I sighed and shook my head.  
“But first...”  
I slowly walked towards the bed, standing next to it and leering down at the pale man. He scowled defiantly in response. Reaching forwards, I wrapped my fingers around the metal bedposts and hauled the mattress towards me. The movement startled the Undertaker, and I chuckled as the bed scraped across the floor before coming to rest in the centre of the room.   
I placed my hand on his chest. He was cold.   
“What would you like first?” I smirked, pulling on the chain around his throat. He flinched as his head was yanked to the side, the cold chain pressing into his skin.  
I quirked my eyebrow. “Did you like that?”  
The mortician muttered something against the gag. I yanked the chain towards me, hard, until every link in the chain was flush with his skin.   
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you!” I pushed out my lower lip, bracing my foot against the bed frame and leaning back. Watching his face, I pulled on the chain as hard as I could, but his throat wasn’t collapsing the way that a human’s would. Which is something I expected.   
The Undertaker thrashed as the chain bit his skin. I imagined that the pressure caused him immense pain, and I could feel the thrill of torture burning through my blood as he began to struggle.   
His head fell back, arms straining against the ropes.   
After a few moments, I let the chain go, and he fell back, coughing and gagging. I drove my fingers into his hair and pulled him up, forcing him to strain his shoulders painfully. Wrapping my other hand around the back of his neck, I unravelled the cloth gag and pulled it from his mouth. His tongue went across his teeth hesitantly as I walked away, tossing the gag over my shoulder and kneeling next to my black bag.   
“You’re... Still...”  
His voice was weak, rough from being asphyxiated.   
From the bag I withdrew Ethan’s personal favourite weapon, one that was invented by the British navy, as far as I was aware. The cat-o’-nine tails; the whip with barbs on the end, built for ripping.  
I turned to face him and leaned back against the wall. His tired eyes were gazing at me, and I pulled the whip across my palm expectantly.   
“You’re still... wearing the robes,” he coughed.   
I smiled bitterly. “I wore them for ten years, you don’t think that I would wear them for two more?”  
The mortician sighed in response.  
“Although,” I continued, fingering the collar of the robes idly. “I did make an adjustment.”  
With that, I unfolded the mask that I had stitched into the robe. It covered my face from the nose down, ending just below my eyes with two strings on each side that I could tie around the back of my head.   
I did so to demonstrate, and twirled on my heel. The whip unfurled and spun around me as I gestured towards my face.   
The mortician raised an appreciative eyebrow.   
“Intimidating,” he rasped.   
“Isn’t it?” I chirped.  
“I remember you as a child, my dear-“ his monologue was cut short in a hiss of pain as I sent the whip across the room. It glanced across his stomach, and a few second after the barbs recoiled, thin red lines bloomed on his porcelain skin.   
It was the most satisfying thing I had ever done to anyone.   
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” I murmured as he pressed his eyes shut and grit his teeth.   
“Three years after I escaped you the first time, I was tortured by the Yard using this. My back is covered in those lines,” I said, my tone entirely apathetic.   
“They released me on the deal that I would not report the abuse.”  
“I-I’m sorry tha-“   
I swung my arm down again, yet he still didn’t scream. This was Ethan’s favourite part; the whimpers, the half-yelps.   
I glared at him. “I am not a child any more.”  
“I didn’t say you were!” He shouted, shrinking back in terror as the whip came down again. Pressing his mouth against his arm, he muffled his own cry of agony.   
I raised my eyebrow, surprised. It was an unusual reaction.  
I shifted my weight onto one hip. “Would the gag help? I can put it back on, but I rather enjoy silencing you in other ways.”  
Chartreuse eyes cracked open and glared at me from beneath white lashes.   
“You’ve grown,” he spat bitterly.   
I aimed the whip carefully. “Hold still for me, dear,” I whispered, before cracking the whip forwards.   
Three edges of the tendrils slashed across his face, the barbs catching across his mouth. The others spread wide and laced his neck with cuts. The Undertaker jerked hard, a scream of pain dying in his throat as his lips split in three places each and the chains rattled against the bed frame.   
Blood dripping down his chin, the mortician gasped in pain and let his head fall forwards. I struck him again, once across his abdomen and three more over his chest.   
Each time, he twisted in his ropes and cried meekly. Tears dripped from his eyes and he had hiccups and yelps of pain, but I had yet to elicit any real sound from him.   
He knew I was waiting for it, the sociopath. As a torturer himself, he recognized that I was waiting for the electricity of the first scream.   
Glancing at me as I tossed the whip to the side, the mortician allowed his white fingertips to uncurl from the bit of rope he was desperately hanging on to.   
“You’re not human, are you?” I murmured, pulling a knife from the bag.   
The Undertaker eyed me warily. “Of course I am,” he stated firmly. “Don’t be daft.”  
“Bold move, calling the one holding the knife rude names,” I chided, flipping the long blade around in my hand.   
The mortician chuckled. “Parva Mortem.”  
I threw the knife as a furious blush crept up on me. It sank into his thigh and he yelped, eyes glazing over as he tried to maintain his composure. I walked over and yanked the knife out. His body jolted and he bit his lip before realizing that it was also bleeding. With a sharp hiss, his head fell back and he took a slow, pained breath. More of his blood stained the thin mattress beneath him.   
“And tell me, how does that feel?” I simpered. “Oh wait- I ALREADY KNOW!”   
I hit him across the face with the back of my hand.   
Something inside me broke as his head snapped to the side. Trembling for a moment, I put my face in my hands and sank onto the edge of the bed.  
All I could hear was the sound of my own breathing, and I quickly checked that the Undertaker wasn’t dead. His eyes were on me, mouth partially open, the ghost of a grimace of pain still etched on his features.   
After a moment, he cleared his throat. “I still wish... that those days didn’t have to happen.”  
I glowered at him.   
“You’re about to start wishing that these ones didn’t,” I growled, leaning back against him and tilting my head up. “ETHAN!” I boomed into the house.   
Moments later I heard him leaping up the stairs. I watched the Undertaker’s face pale. Although, that could have been from blood loss.   
Ethan popped his head through the door cautiously before stepping fully into the room.   
“Yes?” He replied in a singsong voice.   
I smiled sweetly. “Please help me transport our guest to the room across the hall.”  
Grinning, Ethan threw the door wide open and leapt forwards. I felt the mortician flinch behind me. The teen’s eye caught the torture bag that still laid on the floor, and he switched course. Withdrawing a small bone saw from the bag, he smirked darkly before approaching the mortician. Placing the saw along the rope just above the Undertaker’s hands, Ethan hummed lightly to himself while drawing the blade back and forth. I laughed at the mortician’s anxious expression.   
“Don’t worry,” I said, patting his shoulder reassuringly. “Ethan is very precise.”  
At that moment, the Undertaker’s hands fell free. They were still bound together, but were no longer tied to the bed. He brought them forwards, wincing as the motion stretched his stiff shoulders. Then Ethan turned very dramatically and tripped, landing sprawled on the bed, the teeth of the saw directly against the mortician’s throat.   
Ethan maintained foreboding eye contact. “Oops,” he whispered, pushing himself up and slowly lifting the saw off of the Undertaker’s flesh.   
I winked at the mortician as Ethan moved to cut his legs free.   
Without further incident, Ethan and I dragged the mortician across the hall. I allowed Ethan the pleasure of kicking him down onto his knees, and then once again the Undertaker and I were alone.   
I knelt in front of him and lifted his chin. “Now, Undertaker,” I began. “There is going to be a couple of distinct differences between how you treated me and how I treated you. The first of which entails how this house is set up.”  
He pulled away from me and I bunched a fist into the long elegant hair at the back of his neck, dragging him back up against me.   
“You see,” I continued, completely ignoring how he attempted to fight me off. “This building has something yours did not...”  
He stilled.   
I grinned. “That’s right,” I whispered, giddy at the sight of his brilliant eyes so petrified. “Electricity.”  
“No one knows how to even use that properly yet,” he protested immediately, and I threw him down to the floor.   
I walked over to the corner of the room where the electrical socket was. I had several of my own handcrafted devices able to be hooked up to it via the magic of metal wires, and a single switch to turn the current on and off.   
I wrapped a single metal bar with the wire and walked back over the Undertaker.   
“Hold this,” I instructed, holding it out. “Flat on top of your palms.”  
The mortician pushed himself away from me, and I stepped onto his stomach, reopening the whip wounds. Whimpering, he held out his palms.   
“What, not scared any more?” I asked.   
He glared up at me. “I’m sure I can survive a little shock. People have survived being hit by lightning.”  
“Oh, you’ll survive,” I agreed, placing the bar atop his fingertips and sauntering back to the switch.   
“I operate on a no-kill principle.”  
With that I flicked the switch.   
The current pulsed through instantly; I heard the hum ignite. As I expected, the mortician tensed up immediately. It was enough power to boil a gallon of water in under three minutes. Typically, the switch was a quick on-off ordeal.   
The Undertaker’s muscles all acted at the same time, and he curled up, clutching the bar unwillingly to his chest. His jaw clenched, his eyes closed, and he writhed on the floor, hair whipping along the floor behind him.   
I flicked it off and he collapsed, the bar rolling away from him. His hands twitched, a scorch mark across both palms.   
“How was that?” I inquired.   
Breathing laboured, he rasped: “I cannot f-feel my... f-face...” from beneath the blanket of white hair.   
“Sounds familiar,” I remarked, picking up a large rusted metal hoop from the floor.   
Snapping it open, I approached the trembling mortician. It was easy to slide half of the ring beneath his throat and clip the other half overtop, pushing the two sides of the circle together until it was tight around his neck. Shaking the bar out from the wires, I hooked them under the metal ring and wrapped it around a couple times.   
The mortician jerked back half-heartedly, muscles too weak from the first shock to escape.   
“What... do you want from me?” He breathed, fingers weakly pulling at the collar as I retreated to the wall.   
I considered the question.   
“Beg,” I suggested, and flipped the switch on.   
A scream finally ripped through the Undertaker’s throat. He kicked and twitched, shoulders tensing and muscles strained. I counted to ten, a long and painful wait as he screamed in agony.   
The switched went down.   
The mortician cried against the floor.   
“What are you?” I asked, blatantly curious.   
He cracked open one eye and stared at me sadly.   
“I-l am... nothing,” he stammered, more tears pouring from his eyes. My gaze shifted to his throat. A red ring of severe irritation encircled his skin.   
I hummed. “I’ll make you a deal,” I proposed, and the pained green gaze fixed on my again.   
“Apologize, and we only do this five more times.”  
“And if I don’t?” He challenged, muscles in his back and shoulders still trembling as he lay curled over.   
I sighed and flicked the switch on.   
It took eleven times until he begged.   
After I flipped the switch off for the eleventh time, his eyes shot open and he wailed: “P-please! I-I-I c-can’t t-take -a-a-any m-more!”   
His entire body, including his mouth, was twitching, jerking and trembling uncontrollably. I smiled and stepped over to him slowly.   
“Did you just beg? Is that what just happened?”   
“Y-yes!” He gasped, rolling over and burying his face in his twitching hands.   
I cackled madly and unlocked the collar.   
“I’ve got one more thing for you to try,” I hissed into his ear, tossing the ring aside and hauling him to his feet by his hair.   
“N-n-n-“  
“ETHAN!”  
The teenager once again aided me in transporting the mortician. When we reached the top of the stairs, I glanced at Ethan.   
“I may have lied, Undertaker,” I apologized. “Two things.”  
With a nod, Ethan and I dropped him at the same time.  
Ethan bounced gleefully side to side as the Undertaker tumbled all the way down the stairs and sprawled on the floor at the bottom.   
“Should I be feeling guilty?” I asked Ethan, placing my hands on my hips.   
Glancing at me, Ethan simply pointed at his own throat, mirroring where my scars were.   
I nodded serenely. “You’re right. I don’t.”  
We followed the mortician, but in a much safer manner. Ethan leapt ahead and flipped the mortician over, facing him upright. He was bleeding from a new cut on his forehead, and a few other injuries that seemed to blend in with all the pre-existing cuts.   
I headed to the candle wax. It was boiling now, fully melted.   
Warm wax was one thing- women were actually beginning to use it as a commonplace hair removal method. But boiling wax was different.   
“Bring me a ladle,” I commanded Ethan, and he bounced happily to the kitchen area.   
Handing me the utensil, the teenager dragged the Undertaker closer.   
The mortician barely fought, dragging his hands along the floor. Ethan knelt next to me. Then the teen pulled the mortician up against him. A flashback from two years ago shot into my mind, and all traces of guilt vanished from my mind.   
“Open his mouth,” I hissed.   
Obediently, Ethan gripped the pale man’s jaw and held it in place while tipping his head back.   
“Hold your breath,” I murmured sweetly to the Undertaker. “Or this will hurt even more.”  
Then I tipped a ladle-full of the candle wax into his open mouth. The mortician’s scream was cut off as the wax solidified quickly at the back of his throat, but he thrashed from the pain. Ethan wrapped his other arm around his neck, determined to hold him still. I poured one more spoon of the boiling liquid between his teeth, until the wax reached up to his lips. Instructing Ethan to move his hand, I quickly spread more of the wax across the mortician’s mouth, sealing it off.   
“There,” I said proudly, as the mortician fell forwards onto his hands and knees, feeling the solid wax gag with his fingers.   
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” I whispered, pouting again.   
The mortician nodded shakily, more tears falling from his eyes.   
I glanced at Ethan.  
“Finish this,” I commanded, handing him the ladle. “Cover the rest of his wounds. Even the tiniest scratch cannot be left untreated,” I purred, running my hand through the Undertaker’s hair.   
“We are, after all, professionals.”  
The mortician moaned with pain and fell forwards onto his elbows. He was unconscious before Ethan finished.  
“What are you going to do with him?” Ethan asked after staring at his limp body for a few moments and blowing out the fire.   
I shrugged. “I’ll peel all this shit off him and properly clean him up. When he wakes up, if he attacks me again, I’ll kill him. Otherwise, Ethan,” I sighed romantically to myself and patted the boy’s knee. “You’re probably too young to know.”  
He crinkled his nose and I laughed tiredly.   
“This is for Tommy Blue,” I said, pulling a couple more bills from inside of my robes and handing it to him.   
“Where did he go, anyways?”  
“Back to the others,” Ethan assured me. “He’s perfectly a’right. Just a little traumatized.”  
“Good,” I yawned.   
Ethan, ever my hero, dragged the mortician down into my personal quarters and left him laying on the floor while I went to the washroom to have a bath.   
It had been a long day. For everyone.


	11. Chapter 11

After my recovery, I left my robes in the washtub. It was time for them to get a good wash from one of the children. That’s how this household functioned; I provided them shelter and protection if they did whatever random chores I assigned. Whoever wanted to bathe next would have to earn the right by washing the robes first.  
I pulled the cloth towels across my skin and lifted the door to my chambers. Checking that the mortician was still unconscious near the bed, I dropped the towel and climbed down the worn wooden ladder. My feet touched the cold dirt floor and I flinched.  
Passing the Undertaker silently, I pulled open a dresser drawer and lifted out another set of black robes; the second ones that the mortician had given me, with the elastic clasps rather than buttons. I pulled a red button up shirt with the sleeves ripped off over my head, followed by the robes. Beneath, I wore a set of dark purple pants which tapered at the ankles.  
I faced the polished metal mirror, ran my hands through my hair, and then turned to the mortician. I had expected him to still be unconscious.  
You can imagine the fright I received when I was met with his bright chartreuse eyes, instead. Leaping back, I pressed my hand over my chest.  
“Jesus,” I hissed.  
He had propped himself up on one elbow, torso twisted oddly, fiery gaze fixed on me from beneath white lashes. One hand was half-heartedly feeling at the wax gag that still covered the lower half of his face. The arm that supported him trembled. Cuts and lacerations that were covered with wax were obviously taking their toll on him, and his hair was tangled and matted, half of it stuck to his pale chest and shoulder blades.  
I grinned sympathetically. “Poor baby,” I tsked, stepping forwards. The Undertaker’s eyes widened and he pushed himself away from me, falling back against the floor.  
I chuckled and knelt next to him. Despite his weak state, the mortician managed to throw his arm over his face, hiding himself from me. With a light smile, I pulled him towards me, cradling him across my lap with his head in my hand so that he would look up at me.  
“No need to fret, dear,” I sighed. “Remember how you took care of me afterwards? It’s time for me to return the favour.”  
He weakly shook his head in protest, and I placed my hand comfortingly on his sternum. He was cold.  
I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Come on,” I encouraged, rising to my feet and pulling him with me. Stumbling to his feet, the mortician silently followed my lead as I guided him through the short journey to the bed. I laid him down upon it, and his body visibly relaxed.  
I knelt above him, gently sitting myself across his hips with my legs to either side. He grimaced again, but his hands remained still out to his sides.  
Leaning forwards, I pulled a small flip-knife from my pocket.  
He began to scream and thrash when I brought the blade out, but I pressed my hand down against his chest, holding the blade to my lips and shushing him.  
He stilled, but his eyes were wide like yellow moons as I drew near. Carefully, I dug the tip of the blade into the centre of the wax in his mouth. I carved a small divot, winding the knife in and flicking out the wax that I cut. Every time the wax snapped outwards, he flinched, and I smiled reassuringly when I could. When I had a significant dip dug out from the centre, I laid the knife along his cheek and pulled it across like a razor, carefully sliding it right between his flesh and the wax seal. Lifting a section of the wax, I put the knife away and gently pried the gag looser with my fingers. With a few shifting efforts, I finally freed the Undertaker’s mouth. Tossing the wax aside, I actually had to help him close his mouth, since his jaw had been forced open for over an hour.  
He moved his tongue around his mouth for a moment while I began to remove larger wax amounts across the rest of his body.  
“Did I mention... your hair is longer?” He rasped.  
I glared at him. “No shit.”  
“I was making conversation,” he defended.  
“Well, stop.”  
He sighed and laid himself back down flat, wincing slightly when I tore off more of the wax. I noticed, and an idea occurred to me.  
Suddenly abandoning the mortician, I crawled up the ladder and stuck my head out of the trapdoor.  
No one was in the house.  
Sigh.  
Guess I’d do it myself. 

“More heat, excellent,” the Undertaker muttered sarcastically, stepping into the bath.  
“I’m being nice,” I snapped, trying to sound offended.  
He chuckled tiredly and slid beneath the water.  
I rolled up my sleeves and knelt next to the tub, beginning to extract more of the wax, which was already softening slightly in response to the heat of the water. I glanced at his face. His lips were parted, eyes closed as his muscles also reacted to the warmth, relaxing. His hair floated around him on the surface of the water.  
With warm and damp fingers, I carefully caressed his cheek, where the cuts from the whip were slowly healing. He didn’t flinch as I touched the lacerations. Instead, he simply sighed and tilted his head back, allowing me to see the jagged marks across his throat as well.  
I resumed rubbing off the candle wax. Bits floated in the water, which was unappealing, but encouraging in the progress I was making.  
The mortician’s lack of humility came in handy. I didn’t have to do much convincing make him to strip in order to get him in the bath, and I noted with a certain amount of pride that Ethan did a good job. There was not a single exposed cut.  
“I am... vulnerable,” the mortician whispered, snapping me out of my trance.  
I blinked at him, my hands pausing their work. “Well... you are naked in my clinic, so... obviously,” I affirmed.  
He cracked open an eye, staring directly at me. “Do you like it?”  
The question caught me off guard. Then I grinned. “As I said, you are naked in my clinic, so, obviously.”  
I winked and smoothed my thumb along another line of wax on his abdomen, peeling it back slowly.  
He watched me with mild and detached interest. “You are quite the odd one, aren’t you,” he murmured.  
I snorted. “You’re one to talk.”  
He closed his eyes and sank further into the water, dipping his mouth beneath.  
I lifted my hands and scraped away any remains of wax drips on his face and throat.  
“You’re not human,” I restated firmly.  
He scowled slightly but made no reply.  
Down his body I went, across his abdomen where I had hit him with the whip, down his legs where the ropes had burnt him. Lastly, I attended to his hair. Carefully guiding his head beneath the surface of the water, I resisted the small urge to hold him under. After dipping him gently several times, I stood and retrieved a metal comb and coconut oil.  
“This,” I smiled, holding up the oil. “Is imported. And, is one thing that I can truly say that I bought legally, with clean money,” I cooed proudly.  
“Congratulations,” he murmured sarcastically, sitting forwards as I knelt behind him. Gathering his hair in my hands, I used the edge of the comb to carve out a solid chunk of the coconut oil and massaged it in my hands, spreading it through his silver strands. I proceeded to drag the comb through. It caught on certain spots, and I took my time, unweaving the blood, wax, and various tangles with my fingers and the comb.  
The entire process took an hour, half of which alone was devoted strictly to his hair.  
Eventually, I helped him out of the tub and wrapped a towel around him, directing him back to my private chambers, ushering him down the ladder fairly quickly. I didn’t want to scar Ethan by letting him walk in on the practically naked man.  
The consecutive hour was spent dressing his wounds properly. Once in a while he winced when I poured alcohol across his lacerations.  
“You-were-unconscious-for-this,” he hissed, clenching his fingers into the thin blankets covering my bed.  
“Sh-sh-sh-sh,” I instructed, placing sticky bandages over each cut deep enough to warrant it. I left the cuts on his mouth alone.  
I tossed him a set of my robes. My own. Hard to believe, right?  
He caught the black fabric and held it up, sitting upright slowly. “These are not of the same origin as mine,” he murmured slowly.  
“Correct.”  
“Where did you get them?”  
“Ethan likes sewing,” I replied, stifling a giggle. “It’s quite useful. I go to fabric stores, and he makes the robes.”  
He nodded appreciatively, pulling them up his shoulders and carefully standing upright. Standing still, I watched him cautiously as he figured out the buttons and clasps on my robes.  
“You look good in my clothes,” I observed aloud.  
He cocked a pale eyebrow at me. “I look good in anything.”  
“Including nothing,” I cackled.  
“You know,” he sighed, sounding frustrated. “You’re awfully flirtatious for a dungeon master.”  
“Doctor,” I corrected. Then I perked up. “Oh yes, we have not been officially introduced. My name is Doctor Mortem,” I smiled, reaching forwards.  
With a suspicious glance at me through his hair, he slowly lifted his hand to meet mine.  
We clasped palms for a moment.  
“Undertaker,” he replied. “Pleasure to meet you.”  
“Lying is rude,” I scolded, tightening my grip and pulling him towards me.  
With a yelp of surprise, he stumbled towards me. He was lean, and I caught him easily, swinging him around dipping him so that he was below me, relying entirely on my support. His white hair trailed against the floor.  
He scowled. “That’s usually my move.”  
“That’s nice,” I smirked. “I could let you go, if you prefer.”  
“Please, let me up,” he sighed, folding his hands across his own chest.  
I chuckled. “Very well.”  
With that, I hauled him back upright, patting him on the shoulder as one would do a small child and stepping away. He caught my hand as I brushed past him.  
“My turn,” he growled, yanking me back sharply and wrapping his other arm around my waist snugly.  
“Oi!” I shouted, pulling away, but I was too late, having been taken by surprise.  
He spun us both, swaying back and forth gently and holding my hand out in dancing pose.  
I pulled back on my hand as well, and he simply tightened his grip. I could tell the effort of the movement was taxing for him.  
“Why?” I demanded, stumbling along with the footsteps.  
He chuckled to himself and spun us again. Suddenly, my back was to the wall, hand pressed against the brickwork. I braced my arm against his throat, blocking him, but he pulled it away easily with his free hand.  
I glared up into his eyes defiantly. “Good job, now what?”  
“Oh, nothing~” he hummed, tilting his head curiously. “Just wanted to make it clear that my methods are much more creative than simply grabbing someone and tipping them.”  
“You could be nicer to someone who just spent hours trying to make you feel better,” I snapped, twisting my hips to get away.  
“And you,” he hissed, gritting his teeth and pushing his hips against mine harder. “Could be a lot less wiggly— for someone who obviously enjoys being pinned to the wall.”  
a furious blush crept onto my cheeks. “How dare you suggest-“  
“Not saying I mind,” he chuckled, leaning down and planting his mouth over mine.  
I braced for pressure, alcohol, and teeth. I had forgotten how soft the Undertaker was, as it was in complete contrast to his character.  
I made a muffled squeak of surprise. Tentatively letting go of my wrists, the mortician placed his hands on each side of my hips and stepped back, drawing me with him away from the wall, undoubtedly to see if I would follow.  
Pulling me against him with one arm wrapped around my lower back and the other hand resting lightly on my shoulder, he smiled shyly and broke off.  
It took me a moment to readjust.  
“You are strange,” he commented again, and I glared up at him. When I remained silent, he spoke again.  
“What, would you like another?”  
Forcing a smile onto my face, I winked. “Always.”  
He leaned down again, and when our  
mouths drew close, I bit him.  
He jerked back, surprised, and relinquished his hold on me. Proudly watching him stumble away, I smirked as he pressed a pale finger to his bleeding lip.  
“Fuck off and die,” I spat, wiping my own mouth with the back of my hand.  
“I’ll wash out your mouth,” he laughed darkly.  
“And I’ll bite you again,” I threatened equally. “Harder.”  
“Oh, no, dear,” he chuckled, holding up a finger. “I didn’t mean in a fun way.”  
I gestured around my small room. “There is no soap. Nor is there candle wax,” I objected, my tone hardening with my gaze. “So I’m afraid you’re out of luck, and I’ll say whatever the hell I want.”  
The Undertaker stiffened, growling quietly and gritting his teeth at the insolence of the challenge.  
He lunged forwards and grabbed the collar of my robes. Shrieking, I leapt back, attempting to wriggle out of the clothes before he could catch me with them. He tugged hard and I was forced forwards as I lost my balance. One of his arms wrapped around my waist and suddenly I was flying. Now draped disgracefully over the Undertaker’s shoulder, I grabbed at his hair in attempts to pull it as the mortician began to climb the ladder. As we ascended, he chuckled.  
“You may not want to fight right now- if I drop you, you will die from this height.”  
“I will take death!” I screamed, aiming a kick at his face.  
“Or,” he growled, ducking his head beneath my boot and allowing me to slide down his shoulder to where I dangled towards the floor dangerously. “You will be paralyzed, and at my mercy forever more.”  
“You’re a sadist!” I hollered, but I stilled my attacks. As soon as we had made it up the ladder, he flipped me back over and I landed on my butt on the floor of the clinic.  
“How-DARE-you-“  
I scrambled to my feet, but he was faster, and he grabbed me in a headlock around my neck.  
“C’mere, scoundrel,” he seethed, dragging me back towards the bathing room.  
I fought, hissing and screeching the entire way.  
“You shouldn’t be able to do this!” I shouted, entirely frustrated that he was still stronger than me. “You’re not human!”  
“Would you! Shut! Up!” He snapped, jamming his other hand over my mouth and tightening his grip around my throat, until all I could contribute were indistinct gurgles and coughs.  
Finally, he managed to force me into the washroom, and he hauled me upright, pushing me against the sink counter and pinning me from behind with his body. I glared at him via the polished mirror. The edges of the counter dug sharply into my pelvis.  
The familiar fog of panic began to creep into my mind, but I forced it down. As long as my head didn’t go down, I knew I’d be okay.  
Repeating the words “you’re not at the basin” to myself in my head, I maintained my glare as the mortician reached his arms around me, grabbing the soap bar that sat next to the tap while his other hand gripped my jaw and tilted my head back. He hit the handle forwards on his way by, and water streamed out of the nozzle of the sink.  
“Now then,” he said, wetting the soap bar and holding it threateningly close to my mouth. “Where are all those curse words?”  
I pressed my lips into a thin, firm line and shook my head.  
“Come on,” he breathed into my ear, and I strained against his grip. “Open wide.”  
Shaking my head weakly again, I fought my terror as he reached forwards and pushed the drain cover of the sink down.  
“Jesus Christ, fine!” I shouted, reaching forwards to unplug the sink myself as it began to fill up. I cursed my fingers for shaking so visibly and obediently opened my mouth.  
The mortician paused, surprised by my actions. “Interesting,” he murmured.  
I shrugged. “I mean... how bad can soap be?”  
The Undertaker chuckled in response. “Bad enough that it’s been used to scare children like you for centuries.”  
“I’m not a-” With that, he slid the bar across my tongue before dropping it back in the sink.  
The bitter flavour made me recoil.  
The next few moments were not my proudest. The mortician stuck his fingers in my mouth, moving more bubbles of the vile potion across my teeth and into my cheeks. While I coughed and gagged, sneezing from the lather, he simply worked, humming to himself and jamming his hand down my throat until I thought I was going to choke. It would have been more fun had he seemed sadistic at all- I could have teased him about having a soap kink, anything. Instead, I felt like I was a toddler, simply being taught a lesson about what to say. Every moment was humiliating. It’s a bizarre feeling, to have someone else’s fingers in your mouth when you truly don’t want anything to do with it. Everything was slippery and bitter, and occasionally his nails scraped at the sides of my mouth when he worked the soap into the corners of my jaw.  
Finally, he withdrew, and I spat into the sink. It felt as though bubbles were coming out of my nose, and I sneezed again. When I had my eyes closed, he cupped his hand and collected water, proceeding to splash it all into my open mouth. I choked on it and coughed harder, bending forwards over the sink. I couldn’t get away from it- every time I opened my mouth to cough, he would drip a little more in.  
“Hold your breath,” he warned me, before slowly pushing me under the stream from the tap.  
It wasn’t the same as the basin, I found. It wasn’t continual submergence. My hair now dripping wet on one side and my lips red, he pulled me back out of the water.  
Then he let me go, and walked away. I glared after him. Still coughing, I leaned forwards and rinsed my own mouth out properly, took one look at the sopping and blushing mess I saw in the mirror, and slowly shut the tap off, breathing hard.  
“Fuck you,” I muttered under my breath, smiling to myself rebelliously before starting after the mortician.


	12. Chapter 12

“You-ASSHOLE-“  
“I did warn you,” he giggled, leaning back on his palms on the bed.   
“I nearly choked to death on your stupid bubbles!” I screamed, lunging at him and wrapping my hands around his throat. He fell back as I collided with him, smiling up at me with a halo of white hair.   
I shook with the effort of forcing myself not to crush his trachea.   
“RRRRGH!”  
With that, I shoved off of him and rolled off the bed.   
“Feisty,” he murmured, sitting up slowly and gently rubbing his neck.   
“I’ll kill you,” I warned, whipping around and brandishing my pocket knife.   
He laughed, collapsing back on the bed and doubling over. “P-Please, with that? You’re joking- you’re joking!”  
I glowered for a moment, a furious blush creeping up on me. Flicking the knife closed, I shoved it in my pocket.   
“It would kill a human,” I hissed, folding my arms and leaning back against the cold brickwork of the wall.   
This comment sobered the mortician up. He slowly pushed himself back up to sitting, ghost of a grin still flickering across his face.   
“You speak dangerously,” he whispered, almost to himself, whilst tapping a long black nail against his smile.   
“I’m correct, aren’t I?” I replied quietly.   
“So what?” He snickered, unfolding himself and getting to his feet. Spreading his hands innocently, the mortician stepped forwards slowly.   
“So what if you are?” He repeated, continuing to approach.   
Remaining still with my back to the wall, I made no move when he drew near. The Undertaker hovered close, imposing form glancing down at me from only a couple of inches away. His hands found mine. Instead of gripping them, he began running his fingers up and down my arms. He pushed himself against me and his hands reached my shoulders.   
“What will you do,” he breathed, staring down at me. “If you are correct?”  
I held still; I didn’t even look at him as his nails gently traced their way up my neck. He titled my head back, and I simply followed along as he moved his hands back down and up again before very carefully cupping my face. He forced his thumb into my mouth easily, and I opened my jaw obediently. I suppressed a shiver when he slid his nail and the pad of his thumb over my tongue, dipping further back into my mouth. I found the sensation much more tolerable without the bitter soap accompanying it. His movements were slower, more deliberate than before. Then he gripped my jaw and pulled me forwards, forcing me to my knees on the floor in front of him.   
That’s the first time I made a noise. A small gasp of surprise escaped me.   
He chuckled darkly and I glanced up at him. I could feel my blood drumming through my body. What would I do? What could I do? These questions in mind, I waited for his next move. His eyes were on me, glowing faintly as they had that first night, like malicious fireflies.   
“You’ve changed,” he murmured, his thumb still holding my tongue down.   
His skin had no flavour. It was just cold, and when I moved my tongue to draw back in any way, he dragged his nail against the back of my pallet. My shoulders shuddered as I gagged against the touch, and he giggled again.   
“Sh, sh, stay still,” he advised, tilting my head back and forth, illuminating gaze sweeping across my features.   
I felt minimal insecurity. Every... torturer... I had ever come in contact with- which was many, considering my life choices- had some strange quirk with examination, all similar to each other. I put it down to the idea of temporary obsession with a target.   
I knew what I looked like, and frankly, I liked it. Scarred in a few places from being beaten, lashed, or cut, usually bruised from fighting or running and jumping, and thin now. Almost as thin as I was when I first met him. My cheekbones were almost jagged, still covered with a strong layer of muscles and rouge from all the laughter I had brought myself over my life.   
My arms hung dead at my sides. Allowing my eyes to drift away, I obeyed the motion of his hand, looking left and right and then left again, all the while slightly humiliated with the finger in my mouth. It wasn’t even a gag; it was just bizarre. The Undertaker could think of little things like that I knew I never would be able to- such small things, that made you feel just as small. I knew he was more powerful than me that way.   
With an empowered grin he threw me to the floor. My mouth suddenly felt cold without the digit in place, and I hit the ground with my hands up. Planting his heel on my back, between my shoulder blades, he shoved me down flat roughly. A small whimper escaped me beyond my control, and I laid my face against the cool floor, expressionless.   
The Undertaker’s hands slid below my shoulder, trying to turn me over. At this moment, I rocked onto my side, fighting. I kicked his hands away and shoved myself backwards along the floor, trying to gain enough to momentum to push myself to my feet. He scowled in frustration. The mortician tackled me and flipped around, eventually wrestling me to the ground again, despite me scratching at him and kicking and thrashing the best I could. He pinned my arms out to the sides, breathing slightly harder than he was before, and I went limp again, glaring up at him from beneath hooded lids.   
He chuckled breathlessly. Sliding his legs over my hips, he tentatively released my arms and ran his tongue over his teeth.   
“Now then,” he rasped. “I hope you don’t mind my... morbid curiosity, but...”   
he trailed off as he unbuttoned the torso of my robes. I didn’t have much to hide there, and I remained motionless, arms still out at the sides, and his nimble fingers made short work of my red buttons. Within moments, my torso was exposed. I watched his phosphorescent eyes roam across my chest and abdomen, pale fingertips delicately tracing the scars he left behind. The word, VITAE, scrawled across my skin. The two-inch line where he slid the knife between my organs.   
The room seemed to darken as all of his focus concentrated on what he saw and felt. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, sensing where his hands wandered. His left thumb drifted over a scar I knew I had on my right side.   
“This was not me,” he whispered.   
I shook my head and scoffed. “I’ve been through more torture since you, mate.”  
The Undertaker hummed softly to himself as his hands felt up my sternum towards my neck, over the narrow concave scars the tongs had left. Three large dots with lines dragging downwards, along each side of my trachea.   
A lock of silver hair slid free of his ponytail and fell lightly over his shoulder, the ghostly strands dragging over my ribcage. I flinched in response; the bloody thing was so light, it tickled.   
My reaction startled him, and as I curled up the hands at my throat constricted, forcing my head back to the ground. He caught me at the end of a breath, and I panicked almost immediately, the familiar sensation of burning in my lungs dredging up memories of the water basin.   
My mind flashed back there. Caught between the mortician and the edge of the basin, I couldn’t move my hips, and I couldn’t back up, I couldn’t move- I kicked, but made no connection- I screamed, but I made no noise.   
I thrashed hard enough to make the Undertaker tumble from on top of me. Surprised by the sudden turn of events, he rolled over his shoulder and sat back on his heels, fingers balanced against the ground, white ponytail flipping over him in a pale arc of light. He was poised, ready for me to leap to my feet to attack.   
Contrarily, I remained on the floor. Shaking, I forced myself up on to one of my elbows. My robes hung open still, and I was breathing hard, gasping and coughing as though I had been drowning.   
The mortician frowned in concern and crawled back towards me. As he carefully lifted a hand to my face, I cringed away, batting at his hand and turning to stare uneasily at the floor.   
“Get away from me,” I growled.   
“You’re in a cold sweat,” he murmured, managing to wrap his warm hand beneath my jaw carefully, laying his palm along my cheek and pulling me towards him.   
I ducked away. “Get lost!” I warned again, rolling away and sitting upright to face him, leaning back on my palms. I shook my hair out of my face. I could feel that I was sweating as well. I felt nauseous, in fact.   
“PTSD,” he murmured sadly. “Based on how you acted towards torture in general, I didn’t think you had it.”  
“I don’t!” I snapped.  
“You’re afraid of swimming, aren’t you?” He tapped his finger against his lips. “This explains why you reacted so strongly at the sink.”  
I huffed. “Of course not. Just ask Ethan. Swimming is fine, we go in the river frequently.”  
The Undertaker lifted an eyebrow and shifted towards me. I let him approach, eyeing him warily. He settled next to me and put an arm around my shoulders. I pulled away from him, but he tightened his grip, and using his other hand, tilted my chin up to face him. I looked into his eyes, glaring up at the fiery chartreuse.   
“Get-“  
“But what if,” he murmured, pulling me right up against him to the point where I rested my head against his shoulder. My breathing quickened, both from the panic of such enclosure and from the strange proximity.   
“What if I do this,” he whispered lowly, almost comfortingly; “And I force you under the water?”  
With that, he fell back sharply, dragging me down with him.   
I screamed, the familiar sensation of my world being flipped around clawing at my stomach. I could see the dark surface below me. I brought my hands up, bracing for the cold, and a moment later we stopped.   
My eyes opened when I felt something petting my hair lightly. Disentangling my white-knuckled grip from his black robes, I shyly glanced up at the Undertaker, entirely humiliated that I had made such sound.   
I pushed off of him and stumbled away, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes and choking back tears that threatened to spill. Only one other person had ever witnessed me panic like that; Ethan, when I figured out that dipping my head under the water while swimming caused the same effects.   
Ethan had pulled me out when I collapsed beneath the surface.   
The Undertaker jumped to his feet as well.   
“Get-“  
“Come here,” he pleaded, and his fingers ensnared the collar of my robe as he pulled me back.   
I tripped and fell back, collapsing against him and burying my face in my hands. If I fell, I didn’t care. I just had to keep from crying.   
His arms encircled me.   
How romantic, I thought. If only I didn’t hate his guts, and if only he didn’t scare the shit out of me.   
Keeping my face hidden in my arms, I leaned into the odd embrace and wept silently into the fabric of my sleeves.  
“Shh,” he murmured.   
Wiping my eyes across with my left arm, I shoved away from him. His tight grip around my waist still pinned me to him, but I pushed far enough away that I could lean back and glare.   
“Y-you’re the one w-“  
The mortician looked as though I had stabbed him right through his ribcage, and he burst into tears as well. Releasing his grip, he stumbled back and slid down the wall, putting his head on his knees.   
“I know!” He wailed, sobs ripping through him.   
Crying anew, I braced my hand against the wall. Forcing myself to think through the sobs that ripped through me, I screamed in rage and sank to my knees.   
After a few moments, he whimpered again.   
“I’m sorry.”


	13. Chapter 13

Ethan found us both crumpled in our respective corners about an hour later, the mortician crying miserably to himself and me pouting and moping on the bed. He brought us both tea.  
“I didn’t know what kind you liked,” the teenager apologized, handing the weepy Undertaker a cup of what smelled like peppermint.  
I cradled my own cup of hot pineapple weed tea. It was a common plant that grew in cracks in the cobblestones; as a street rat, I had developed a taste for it.  
The mortician took the cup hesitantly, glancing up at Ethan in confusion.  
Ethan giggled. “It’s not poisoned.”  
The Undertaker looked to me.  
I shrugged. “He’s being nice.”  
“Why?” The Undertaker stammered out, wiping beneath his eyes with his sleeve.  
Ethan burst out laughing. “Oh my, I really scared him, didn’t I?”  
I chuckled lightly and nodded. “Of course, Ethan.”  
Cackling, Ethan winked at the mortician before scampering away to the ladder and leaping up out of the basement, the trap door gently settling into place after him.  
After a moment’s silence, the Undertaker spoke. “He reminds me of me when I was younger.”  
“Funny,” I clicked my tongue and tilted my head. “I was about to say the same thing.”  
“Yes,” he agreed, gaze fixating on me for a moment, his sharp green eyes wandering up and down my slouching figure. “I remember you when you were that age. So small,” he chuckled sadly. “Although, you’re pretty scrawny now. What happened to being top dog and getting all the food? That is how you described it, if I recall.”  
“I’ve got five kids or more at any given time,” I laughed humourlessly. “When I’ve the material to eat, it goes to them, not me.”  
He nodded sagely and cast his eyes at his cup. Cautiously, he took a sip. I watched his throat move rhythmically as he drank, the scar that was etched into his flesh there rippling.  
“Whatever happened to... Ciel, was it?”  
At my question, the mortician’s eyes widened dramatically and he choked on his drink. He doubled over in a coughing fit, looking pained.  
“Sorry,” I amended quickly, holding up my hands while trying not to spill my tea. “I won’t ask.”  
“Please,” he agreed weakly.  
An awkward minute of silence passed between us before he took it upon himself to absolve me of my embarrassment.  
“This is a strange... impasse,” he admitted.  
I nodded and nearly managed to finish off my tea, hoping that the heat of the drink would somehow mask the heat I felt in my face. “I suppose... you are welcome to leave at any time,” I said slowly. “But I would not recommend it until you have healed entirely. I will no longer keep you prisoner here.”  
A heavy moment passed, the room darkening. The mortician tapped the side of his cup lightly with his nail. I looked to him at the sound, and found him staring morosely at the half-empty mug.  
Then he turned slightly, eyes contacting my gaze. “Would you like me to stay?”  
It was my turn to choke on my drink. Covering my lips with the crook of my elbow, I bent forwards in a coughing fit, chest shuddering with the effort. Expulsion complete, I cleared my throat and replied. “I’m not legally required to answer that,” I gasped, tapping my sternum.  
He burst out laughing. “Is that a hint of affection I hear?”  
“Affection?” I scoffed. “Is that a hint of desperation I hear?”  
“I’m used to being alone,” he riposted. “You are not.”  
“No one has spent more time alone than me,” I growled.  
He levelled his gaze at me again and shrugged his shoulders. “Even a... nonhuman, as you would say?”  
It took me a moment to understand the weight of his words. I blanched.  
“Y-you admit it,” I breathed.  
“No,” he replied, sounding self-assured. “It was a hypothetical question.”  
“Then I’m hypothetically correct,” I stabbed back, pointing an accusatory finger at him.  
He narrowed his luminescent eyes, before turning back to sip his tea innocently.  
“Hypothetically,” he murmured quietly.


	14. Chapter 14

Silence continued to creep between the mortician and I. No answer had been provided- by either of us- to the multitude of questions that had all been exposed at once.   
As he finished his drink I stood from the rather uncomfortable bed and stepped to the shallow chest that served as my wardrobe. Kicking it aside, I reached down into the dusty alcove and withdrew a tall, green glass bottle, uncorking it and pouring the contents into my empty cup unceremoniously. I stiffly walked over to the mortician and dumped some of the alcohol in his mug as well, not waiting for permission.   
As I sat down on the floor across from him, folding my legs up on each other, he eyed the shiny liquid warily. Lightly tipping his cup back and forth, he put his chin on his knees and glanced up at me.   
“Do you really believe that you and I alone in a room and intoxicated is a wise idea?”  
I shrugged. “I’m known for strategic recklessness, not wisdom. You don’t have to drink it,” I reasoned, taking an icy sip of my own.   
“Strategic?” He giggled, the cup hovering close to his lips. “And, pray tell, what is the end goal?”  
“Short-term, to get you drunk.”  
“Long term?”   
I shrugged and drank my entire cup-full in one go, tipping the bottle to refill it. “I tend not to think that far ahead.”  
“Well,” he sighed, lifting his glass slightly. “Here goes nothing.”  
I clinked my mug against his, with slightly excessive force, and we drank. I could already feel the familiar buzz. It would take a little more to get me actually intoxicated, but with an entire cup down already, I was beginning to feel a little floaty. Closing my eyes, I hummed to myself softly and leaned back. When I opened them again, I caught the mortician staring at me. Somewhat judgementally. He sighed and rolled his eyes, and to my amazement, slammed back his entire drink as well. I leaned forwards to fill his cup again as my peripheral vision grew fuzzier and fuzzier. I felt pretty good with my aim, and tipped the bottle back quickly as the liquid breached the rim of his cup.   
“Alcohol in a tea mug- I feel classy,” he giggled sarcastically, and I burst into laughter as well. My tongue felt heavy.   
“What- What even is this?” He inquired, taking another hard mouthful.   
“Mm,” I replied, holding up a finger and preparing to enlighten the man. “It’s. Uh. Tequila,” I coughed once into my arm. “But really old stuff so. Pretty solid.”  
He nodded sagely, the familiar mist of intoxication clouding his eyes.   
Reaching forwards, I grabbed onto his wrist. He blinked at me, confused.   
“You’ve not got a heart.”  
“That’s slightly hurtful,” he giggled.   
“No no,” I slurred. “I meant, you don’t have a heartbeat. A pulse. You haven’t got one,” I shook my head emphatically.   
He yanked his arm back, jabbing his unoccupied fingers into the side of his neck. Panicked, he stared at me with wide eyes. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “You’re right!”  
We both burst out laughing after a moment of tense silence.   
“Seriously,” I stammered, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye and rocking forwards. “How?”  
“How don’t I have a pulse? Well it means my heart doesn’t work, silly,” he chuckled, tapping me on the nose lightly with his nail. I waved him away and poked him in the stomach as revenge.   
“I meant...,,, how does the alcohol affect you then? How does it do the stuff to your blood? It is your blood, isn’t it? It goes in your blood? Yeah- sssso hoowww... do you get drunk?”  
He frowned for a moment, and I tapped my lips in anticipatory silence.   
“I believe it travels via diffusion.”  
“Wait but... you bleed?”  
He nodded. “I make blood. It just doesn’t pulse around my body the same way. After the initial pressure burst, it won’t spurt forth. It’ll kinda...leak.”  
I nodded sagely. My muscles felt tired, but my fingers felt jittery. With a silly grin, I shook my head and almost fell over.   
“Boy, you’re fucked up,” he slurred, stifling a hiccup in his palm.   
“Careful,” I warned, pouring myself a third cup. “I’ll wash out your mouth.”  
“These are big cups,” the Undertaker noted sadly to himself. “And, by the way, it’s sterilized alrrrready, thanks,” he giggled, holding up his mug of alcohol. As he gestured, I tipped the bottle over the cup for a refill.   
“I’m fucked up??” I guffawed. “Lizzen to how much you’re slurring!”  
The mortician giggled. “I didn’t say I wasn’t. I could probably fall over at any minute.”  
“At least get on the bed, then,” I commanded, gesturing to the mattress.   
The Undertaker stared at me in open-mouth shock before bursting into laughter. I covered my burning face with my hand. “I m-meant so-so that you-you-“  
He waved his hand. “I-I know what you meant!”   
Wiping a tear from his cheek, the mortician pushed himself up the wall. The second full-ass mug of tequila was hitting me hard. While the mortician stood himself up and only swayed a little bit, just following him with my eyes was difficult. In fact, I leaned back, and barely noticed him holding his hand out towards me.   
“Cmon,” he slurred. “Wonchu join?”  
Dizzily, I took his hand. Well, I tried. Our fingers brushed a few times before we finally gripped each other.   
He hauled me to my feet and I took another long drink from my cup before setting it down. The mortician glanced at the mug in his hand, and I grinned and chanted “chug” while he finished it off. We stumbled to the bed together and collapsed onto the mattress. I fell forwards, burying my face in the blankets as the pressure in my head built and the world spun. The Undertaker sat beside me. He propped himself up against the wall and hiccuped once, placing his palm against his head.  
“This was a mistake,” he groaned. “I haven’t drank in...”  
I waited. “...in?”  
He scowled and blew a piece of silver hair from his visage. “I can’t count right now.”  
I burst out laughing again and he swatted lightly at me. “You try!”  
I shook my head. “Nope. You’re morer soberer than me.”  
He rolled his absolutely fucking gorgeous eyes and glanced down at me. My stomach fluttered when we made eye contact- or perhaps that was the tequila, which the whole room smelled like.  
“Mate,” I said slowly.   
He lifted his eyebrows. “Mm?”  
“I forgot.”  
We both snickered madly to ourselves. Eventually, I lifted my head from the covers and managed to drag myself up to drape dramatically over his lap. Playing with his hair lightly, I hiccuped and ran my tongue over my teeth.   
I crinkled my nose. “BleArgh... I taste like tequila and other sad life mistakes,” I muttered sadly.   
“Mm, I bet you do,” he hummed, leaning down and pressing his mouth against mine.  
I jolted, gripping his hair harder than intended from surprise. He didn’t seem to mind, or notice, and after a moment I kissed him back. The familiar burn of alcohol was present across our tongues.  
I pulled back slightly. “Did you know that?” I panted.   
“What?” He breathed, putting his forehead against mine. I could taste the tequila on his breath.   
“You kiss- quite- soft,” I stumbled on my words but managed to choke them out.   
The Undertaker seemed taken aback. “I-I do?” He whispered, surprised by the information.   
I nodded and giggled, vision doubling once in a while. His eyes were very pretty from here, skin even fairer up close. His hair formed a shimmery tunnel as it draped around us.   
“H-how do other people kiss?” He demanded.  
I shrugged. “Like this.”  
Jamming my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, I dragged him down and reconnected our mouths. He yelped and placed his hands against me. I chuckled and bit his lip. With his arms wrapped around me, the mortician adapted well and kissed back tentatively.  
“Come on,” I growled, gripping him by the jaw. “What are you holding back for?”  
He snickered, hooded eyes glaring down into mine. “To not hurt you.”  
“Go ahead,” I whispered. “I give you explicit permission.”  
“Explizzit, hmm?” He chuckled, “Fine word choice.”  
I winked. Or maybe I blinked, but I tried to wink. “Thankyou, thankyou-“  
He grabbed me by the sides roughly enough to startle the speech out of me and shoved me off of his lap, rolling over to pin me to the bed somewhat haphazardly.   
I pushed against his shoulders. “You’re drunk!”  
He giggled childishly, and I felt his voice reverberate across my skin.   
“Well yez,” he admitted. “But I’m fine.”  
He pushed his lips upon mine again, and I wrapped my arms about his neck. Reaching down, he pulled my legs up over his hips and shifted forwards. I gasped, surprised by the bold action. In response he leaned down again with a sly grin, pressing his hips against mine rather lewdly and kissing me before I could say anything about it. My grip around his shoulders tightened.   
“Yrrrr drunk,” I repeated breathlessly when he pulled back.   
The mortician nodded, long silver tresses waving back and forth and tickling the sides of my face.   
“Yes. But I- I’m having fun. JesuszChrist,” he drew back suddenly, eyes wide and shining with fear. “-as long as you’re havinffuntoo, I don’t want to force anyth-“  
Yanking him back down by his collar front, I slammed our mouths together to shut him the hell up. We collided slightly harder than intended and both of us were bleeding when we pulled apart.   
Gingerly, he traced his lips with a pale fingertip, glancing at the blood left on his hand.   
“What the hell?!” He exclaimed.   
I shrugged. “Thatz how other people kizz,” I giggled, licking at my own wounds distractedly.   
He shook his head. “Somewhys, I feel like not.”  
“SOMEWHYS?” I burst out into loud laughter. “You’re sooo drunk! You’re a lightweight!”  
Staring back defiantly at his darkening scowl, I teased him further. “Lightweight, lightweight, the lunaticzzz a lightweight!”  
“So what if I am?” He snapped, invading my personal space again and forcing me back down against the mattress. “Thoses mugs are practically a pint each! Of hard liquor!”   
“Deal with it,” I whispered slowly, tapping his nose once with my fingertip. “I had more than you.”  
“And look where that got you,” he purred, glancing down at my position.   
“Hey!” I shouted defensively. “Everything went according to plan!”  
“Wasseeeing double part of your plan?” He snickered.  
“Ye-es,” I hissed, folding my arms and narrowing my eyes at him.  
“Ooh,” he whimpered sarcastically, leaning over me and placing his palms on the mattress on either side of my throat. I met his glowing green gaze. “Someone’z getting fruzdrated.”  
I rolled my eyes, which sent the entire room careening in the wrong direction. “Well, someonesbeing frustrating.”  
“ExcUSE ME,” he laughed, the alcohol lending his cheeks a bright red tint. “I’m being nice!”  
“You’re being masticious,” I replied, burying my face in his shoulder to make the room stop spinning   
“Masticious isn’t a word,” he muttered to himself, grabbing my arm and pushing me back down.   
I fell harder than I thought I would and all the air was knocked from my chest. Laying there beneath him, breathing hard, rouged, I attempted to focus my gaze on him. He was blushing, his breathing also laboured. The long silver locks of his hair spilled down over his shoulders, draping over my throat in one spot.   
Our eyes locked and he kissed me again, harder than before. I could still feel the overwhelming presence of his hips against mine, and I shifted, for the first time in my life unsure what to do with myself. In response to my uncomfortable wiggling, he gave one low, breathless laugh and rocked forwards slightly.   
I put my arm against his shoulders and gasped in surprise, blinking up at him through my daze.  
He chuckled. I could smell the tequila. “I think,” he whispered, pressing into me just slightly harder- “I think that I will have to drink much more to forget this night.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I know it’s been a while. I’m still working on both of my fan fictions, and for this one, here’s a short chapter— a larger update will happen soon! I’ve got most of it done already. See you later.

As expected, I woke up with a splitting headache.   
Groaning as I slowly forced my eyes open, I put my palm against my forehead and sighed. Down to my right, the Undertaker was sprawled lazily across the mattress, still dead asleep with one pale arm slung over my back. I glanced at him and winced. Several bite-ish marks dotted his throat. On the plus side, the cuts across his mouth healed up alright despite being vigorously assaulted for a few hours prior.   
“Ethaaaaaaan,” I moaned out, sinking down onto my bed in defeat. I knew he couldn’t hear me.   
Eventually, I dragged myself away from the dozing mortician, who, might I add, was shirtless and warm. Bitterly and painfully scaling the ladder, I flopped out disgracefully onto the cool floor, collapsing in an angry puddle in the warm morning sunshine. I curled up on my side and groaned again, pressing my hands over my eyes.   
“Mornin’ boss,” Ethan chirped, mouth half-full of something; most likely bread.   
I forced myself to look at the table. He was seated on the chair with his legs crossed, gazing at me with a fair amount of pity. A young girl that, if I recalled correctly, was named Susan, sat across from him, shyly drinking water. Between them, on the far side of the table, was Tommy.   
“Morning. Hey, Sue. Haven’t seen you here in a while,” I coughed.   
Ethan fetched me a cup of water.   
Forcing myself to sit upright, I took the glass and sipped carefully. The smooth water soothed the pounding headache.   
“Grab me another for the mortician, would ya?” I requested, gesturing to Ethan with the cup.   
“No wait,” I amended as he rose from his chair. “Grab me two.”

Carefully cradling both water glasses in my left arm while climbing back down the ladder, I cursed quietly when some of the cold liquid sloshed over the edges and quickly soaked through my red shirt and dropped over my bare arms.  
Reaching the bottom rung, I stepped off the ladder and approached the bed. The mortician slept on. I smiled to myself, standing next to him and taking a moment to appreciate his natural beauty. His pale skin seemed peaceful and flawless in the dark, the single window at the top corner of the room allowing three distinct beams of sunlight to touch his cheeks. His eyes were closed, long white lashes grazing his own skin and fluttering every now and again with a dream. His elegant white hair was draped around him and across the single pillow and the dark bed covers. Choosing to ignore the fact that his chest wasn’t moving up and down as it should have been, I revelled in the sweet, serene, and silent moment.  
Then I tossed the glass of water in my left hand forwards, maintaining my grip but dumping the contents on top of him.  
As the cold water splashed across his skin, the mortician sputtered awake and shot upright, making some undignified noise of surprise as he rocketed forwards. After breathing hard for a moment, he pushed his soaked bangs out of his face and glared at me, holding his dripping hair out to the sides with a menacing scowl.  
Meanwhile, I bent forwards, holding my abdomen with the arm that possessed the empty cup, laughing so hard I could barely breathe. I shakily held the other cup of water out to him.  
“G-good morning!” I cackled as he took the drink.  
He frowned at the cup and pushed his hair back away from his face, features softening as I collapsed on the ground in giggles.  
“Good morning,” he purred in response. He took one drink from the cup and then flicked his wrist.  
I jolted as the cold wave hit my shoulder, soaking my face and arm.  
I stopped mid-chuckle and stared at him, open-mouthed, stunned, and dripping.  
Then he snickered.  
“You ASSH-“ I screamed, leaping forwards and tackling him.  
Both empty cups went flying across the room, landing miraculously in the pile of our combined clothing on the floor as I collided with him, slamming him back into the wall before repeatedly punching his chest.  
He yelped and blocked my assault, kicking me off of him and launching me across the room. I fell back to the floor. Still giggling, he attempted to shove away more translucent hair that was sticking to the sides of his face.  
“You started it,” he said, bright green eyes fixing on me.  
I stuck my tongue out at him. Hopping to my feet and rubbing my sore ass, (NOT from the activities of the previous night, might I add, but rather, the jarring fall I had just partaken in— although...) I jumped to the wardrobe. Peeling off the freezing wet shirt, I pulled out a dark blue jumper that had been knitted by the man of many talents, Ethan, and pulled it on. The sleeves were a bit short, so I rolled them up.  
“Here,” I snarled, whipping a shirt and pants at the mortician.  
“I can just wear the ones from yesterday.”  
I waved a dissident hand. “Any good orphan knows that rotating clothing to avoid bacteria buildup is the only real way to preserve them.”  
“This coming from the person who wore the same robes for ten years, plus?” He pointed out, lifting his eyebrows as he caught the clothes I tossed to him.  
“Those were my work clothes,” I hissed. “That’s why they were covered in blood when you found me again. I had just finished dealing with someone. So although I wore them nearly every day, it was in shifts,” I replied coolly.  
The Undertaker’s expression sobered slightly. “Yes, I suppose that makes sense...” then his eyes widened. “You want me to wear THIS? It’s got colour!” He shouted after me as I clambered back up the ladder, pushing open the trapdoor to breathe in the light of day.  
“Oh hush,” I laughed back at him. “Some colour will do you good. I’m sure you’ll look ravishing in purple.”  
“You have oddly convenient vocabulary for a street rat,” he spat bitterly, unfolding the violet shirt and black pants.  
“And you have an awfully inconvenient breathing pattern for a human when you sleep,” I replied, swinging myself around on the ladder so that I hung on the side with one arm to glare down at him.  
His eyebrows quirked in surprise and his brilliant green orbs stared up at me. Momentarily petrified, his mouth parted slightly, the words of defence dying on his lips.  
Then he cleared his throat. “So you were staring,” he riposted, pulling the black pants up over his hips.  
I narrowed my eyes at him, feeling the furious blush creeping up my skin. “You know,” I seethed darkly. “I could just lock you in here.”  
“I’d break out,” he replied evenly, levelling his gaze with mine and allowing his smile to drop away.  
“You couldn’t,” I murmured. “I’d put the table on top.”  
“I’d break that too,” he hummed in reply, opening the buttons and sliding the shirt up onto his pale and surprisingly sculpted shoulders.  
“While I admit you are stronger than you look, I doubt you can break a table, at least at that angle,” I scoffed, adjusting my grip on the ladder.  
I recognized the actions that the mortician would take as soon as his hands snapped forwards. As he leapt towards me, I whipped forwards off of the ladder. He reached for me, but as I fell towards him I wrapped my legs around his chest and took him to the ground. Closing my hands around his throat, I glared down at him.  
“What are you?!”  
The mortician kicked upwards, throwing me across the room. I hit the wall above the bed. Skull snapping against the brickwork, I fell onto the mattress, hands pressed to my head. I felt as though I might go unconscious.  
Dimly, I was aware of the mortician approaching me. I felt his hand on the back of my neck, and he pulled me towards him. Rapidly, my vision cleared, and I turned over in his grip to look up at him.  
His eyes were close, and his mouth was closer.  
“What are you?” I whispered, placing my hand against his exposed sternum.  
“Tch... just a little bit fucked up,” he murmured in response.  
“I’ll wash out your mouth,” I threatened, wincing as an echo of pain glanced across my skull. “God... how is it you can whip me across a room and still be pretty?” I gasped, gripping the sides of my head and curling up in misery.  
The Undertaker chuckled. “It’s a unique combination of mental trauma due to over-attachment to mortal souls and complete disregard for human life,” he replied softly.  
I blinked up at him. “Are you alright?”  
He shook his head and burst into laughter, burying his face in the covers of the bed. The giggles quite quickly faded into quiet sobs, and I ran my hand through his hair comfortingly as he cried.  
“You do look good in purple,” I hummed to myself.  
It was true. The dark violet shirt contrasted nicely against his pale skin and ghostly hair, the purple bringing attention to his startling chartreuse eyes; especially as they flickered up to meet mine, brighter than ever as they shone with tears.  
He laughed shyly and wiped his cheeks. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I’m not entirely sure where that came from.”  
I shrugged. “It happens. Ethan cries.”  
A shallow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Do you?”  
“Of course not.”  
“As expected.”  
“Do you even remember last night?” I asked suddenly.  
He nodded. “Most of it. Why? Don’t you?”  
I shifted uneasily. “...some of it. I must have gone blackout fairly quickly, though, because I can feel it... just not remember it,” I concluded shyly.  
The mortician laughed and glanced away from me with a dark grin. “Perhaps,” he breathed in a low voice, tilting his head and pulling himself up from the floor. “I can offer you a practical demonstration—“ he ran his fingers up one of my thighs and I started back in surprise. Leaning forwards, he put his hips against mine and wrapped one of his arms around the small of my back. I felt myself blush as I leaned away. “—a friendly reminder, as it were,” he finished, glowing eyes hooded and lips parted in a challenging smile.  
I swallowed thickly. “I’m not one to turn down adventure,” I replied, shifting out from beneath him. “But it will have to be later. I have a client to see, I believe.”  
The mortician’s gaze hardened into a disgusted glare. Patting his shoulder lightly, I laughed. “Not to torture. I believe I am being paid handsomely for some drug deliverance, that’s all. Criminal A doesn’t trust criminal B, and knows that I have no reason to fear either of them... should work out for the best. And, if Thompson makes the mistake of not paying me, only then will I indeed be taking on a new patient.” I clicked my tongue and jumped onto the ladder.


	16. Chapter 16

It was a successful trip, and I had organized Ethan and the kids to cart home the cash. There wasn’t a huge sum, but it was enough to require six or so people to take it in shifts so that no one was left carrying a big bag of coins.   
As I was walking home through the dark, the last round of loose change in my pockets, a brilliant idea struck me.   
I had been thinking about new ways to challenge the mortician; this seemed perfect. 

I popped the coin in my mouth, swiping my tongue across it to familiarize myself with the metal. Pressing the euro into my cheek, I crouched and hauled open the door to my chambers. Descending the ladder, I allowed the panel to drop down overtop of me. The presence of light indicated the mortician was still up.   
When my feet touched the ground, I turned around to see the Undertaker, settled comfortably on the bed. He was still clothed in the dark purple shirt, draped open at his chest. Half of his hair was braided back loosely. Abandoning the tail end of the braid in his hand, his glowing chartreuse gaze flickered up to meet mine with a polite smile.   
I waved and kicked off my shoes. “Good evening.”  
“Welcome back,” he murmured in response, turning back to braiding.  
“I have a game for us to play, if you’re interested.”  
“Oh?” He asked, tying the braid end off and shifting on the bed to face me. “I’m always ready for games.”  
“You’ll like this one,” I chuckled, approaching the mattress with the mortician sprawled on top of it. “But I’ll like it more.”  
The mortician quirked his eyebrow. “You’ve piqued my curiosity.”  
Kneeling on the edge of the bed, I leaned forwards and pressed him back slightly. He met me with confidence, his light smile unfaltering as our mouths connected.   
After a moment of secretly enjoying the kiss, I pushed the coin forwards with my tongue. Easily sliding it between the mortician’s teeth, I grinned and pushed forwards as the Undertaker jerked back with a muffled noise of surprise.  
He took the coin without much more fight. I pulled back, and he glanced at me, skeptical and confused as he felt the coin with his tongue.   
“This is the game. Your challenge is to keep that coin in your mouth,” I instructed. “Under all circumstances, for five minutes. If you win, we trade the coin off for another five. If you lose, you have to bathe me. Sounds fun, right?”  
The mortician chuckled, eyes shining with interest. He nodded. “Sounds good. I can just keep it in my cheek, yes?”   
I shrugged and grinned maliciously. “Whatever works. Time starts now,” I cackled, and I lunged forwards.  
He fell back on the bed sharply as I collided with him.   
“Jesus!” He exclaimed, pressing a hand on his mouth. “I almost choked on the bloody thing!”  
Grabbing his shirt in my fists, I straddled him and rolled. As expected, he followed my lead and rolled on top of me without a second thought. Dragging him down on, I shoved my tongue into his mouth ferociously and attempted to steal the coin from him. He jerked back and pressed his lips into a thin line, chuckling as he adapted to the task at hand. I bit the lips that prohibited me. Jerking back, he ran his hand across his mouth, glancing with mild interest at the streak of crimson left behind.   
Burying my hand in his hair, I yanked him back down towards me. Defying me boldly, the mortician strained against me, crying out sharply as I continued to pull his hair. The coin slid forwards as he yelped. He barely caught it between his teeth and tucked it back under his tongue before giving in to the pain and leaning forwards. He did as my dominating hand directed, complying with every pull and tug until I brought him very close. With a dark grin, I curled my fist into his hair harder, simply to cause pain. The Undertaker’s glowing eyes snapped shut as he grimaced, a small whimper dying behind his teeth as he held his jaw firmly closed.  
“You won’t last,” I chuckled darkly.   
Flipping momentum suddenly, I released his hair and wrapped my hands around his neck. He fell back on the mattress without a fight, bright eyes widening as he fought to not allow the coin to slide down his throat.  
To help him with that, I tightened my grip. My logic was that after a few moments, anyone being strangled would open their mouth to gasp for air.   
I wasted two minutes fighting to choke him, with the pale mortician smiling condescendingly up at me with his skeletal fingers wrapped around mine, pulling against my grip lightly.   
That’s when it hit me.   
Duh. He wasn’t human.   
“Shit!” I cursed aloud, releasing my grip on his throat and falling back. Giggling, the Undertaker bent forwards and coughed once, careful to tuck the coin into his cheek before doing so.   
“Ten seconds,” he rasped, narrowing a sidelong glare at me challengingly.   
I tackled him off the bed and dragged him to the floor in a desperate last attempt. He landed on top of me and pinned my wrists down, leering overtop of me and flaunting the coin clenched between his fangs.   
“Go on,” he growled around the coin. “Open up. You lost.”  
I glared at him, a look of absolute hatred, my blush red and hot. I had been confident.   
“What’s your bargain if I lose?” I asked, tilting my head away from him and pulling on my hands.   
Leaning back, he considered.   
“Mmmm... then... you have to spend time with me...blindfolded,” he giggled.   
“Pervert,” I hissed.   
“Not entirely,” he shook his head, bringing his mouth closer to mine threateningly. “But... you would have to trust me. And that, I believe, will be humiliating and challenging for you, and entertaining for me.”  
“How—DARE—mmmm!” My rage was interrupted as the coin suddenly fell to the back of my mouth.   
“Excellent,” he hummed, and suddenly his oppressive presence was gone. “Let’s play the game.”  
Using his grip on my wrists, the Undertaker yanked me to my feet. I darted away, but he wrapped an arm around my waist and shoved me back against the wall, connecting our mouths with a heavy force. I allowed it, pushing the coin around teasingly with my tongue. It was a dangerous game, but if I played it right, it was my one chance to show him up at something.   
After a few moments of carefully tormenting him with the easy access to the coin, I shoved him back and tucked it into my cheek.   
“Boring,” I scolded, readjusting to speak around the metal.   
Luminescent orbs narrowing, the mortician sniffed once in mock offence before shrugging. “Fine.”  
His hand shoved my shoulders to the right, and I stumbled into the centre of the room, surprised by the sudden shift in balance.   
“Mm!-“   
I yelped as I felt something wrap around my ankles. As I tripped forwards, I was suddenly yanked into the air. My shirt flipped up and blocked my view. Suddenly my life was chaos— blinded and somehow upside-down, I flailed dramatically, panicked to push my shirt up so I could see.   
Eventually, I managed to pull the fabric away from my eyes. I was staring at the mortician’s knees until I curled slightly to glare up at him. The coin flipped dangerously to my palate.   
“HOW THE HELL—“  
The mortician giggled and shook me once, and I could feel the coin bouncing freely in my mouth. My only hope was to keep my lips together, so I stopped shouting and settled for outraged squeaks and growls. I began to grow dizzy. Blood rushed to my head. As I let go of the hem of my shirt and allowed my arms to hang freely, I felt the grip on my ankles shift.   
“Cute,” the mortician giggled, and I flinched back, swaying lightly as his nail carefully tranced a line from the waistband of my pants up (down?) my exposed midsection until it stopped just below my sternum.   
“Fuck—off,” I hissed, clenching the coin in my molars. My vision was going black.   
“Undertaker...” I gasped, blinking at the floor. “I’m going to... pass out soon.”  
“It’s only been two minutes,” he replied with an easy giggle. “You will be alright.”  
I hung there for a few more seconds, desperately holding onto the coin with my tongue.   
Then suddenly I flipped around. The mortician dropped me onto the floor, angling me so that I could roll on my shoulders easily.   
I did so out of instinct. As I rounded back up, my vision went white and I felt lightheaded. I felt hands beneath my arms. Lifting me up, the mortician threw me towards the bed. I hit the mattress half-on, half-off, torso draped forwards on top of the bed and knees against the floor. I buried my face into the blanket, breathing hard.   
Then the mortician pressed himself down on top of me. Already lightheaded, I tried to scream as he grabbed my hair and pushed my face into the bed. Suffocating, I whimpered and clawed against the mattress desperately. Tears began to run down my cheeks beyond my control as my body panicked.   
Then the mortician yanked me back up. As I gasped for breath, he snapped his hips forwards and hit mine into the bed frame. The harsh metal contact against my pelvis caused me to cry out and my body was jarred and the breath was knocked from my lungs. With that, I felt the coin slide from my lips.   
As soon as the metal glinted on the blanket, the mortician relaxed his grip and pulled me back. I slouched back in his grip, rubbing at my hips and scowling at the coin.   
“You fight dirty,” I coughed miserably. A lock of sliver hair draped over my shoulder as he leaned his head against mine.   
“You knew that when you suggested this game,” he chuckled.   
“I expected to win!” I poured dramatically, pulling away from him. “I wanted a bath.”  
“I’ll give you one after, you crybaby,” he scolded. “But for now, it’s my reward first.”  
I sighed and turned to face him.   
The prick was grinning. 

“I am not moving,” I growled through clenched teeth.   
“Don’t be boring, darling.”  
I felt a hand on my leg and I hissed and kicked him away.   
Curled up, I wedged myself further back into the corner on the bed. The blindfold around my eyes blocked my view entirely. I didn’t like not seeing him— I could not observe him. But he could observe me.   
Uncomfortable.   
His hand returned, undaunted by the attack. I could feel him kneeling on the bed in front of me; his quiet breathing was close, the warmth from his body ghosting against my skin.   
I felt his fingertips on the tops of my thighs. Flinching back, I grit my teeth and growled I warning, the growl turning to a yelp as he forced them down. Then he held still, and I could sense his caution as he slowly moved his hands upwards tracing around the outside of my legs before reaching my hips. Slowly, he pressed his thumbs down and locked his grip on my midsection.   
I hissed and put my arms over my head as he dragged me down away from the corner very sharply.   
I felt my shirt ride up slightly as he pulled me along the bed until I laid out flat under him.   
Still unable to see, I folded my arms across my chest firmly and set my lips in an unimpressed line, trying to muster the same energy as when I could glare menacingly at him. The darkness of the blindfold was violating.   
“I have to stay like this for how long?” I spat.   
”Until I say,” he chuckled. His icy fingers slid up my shirt and caressed my skin so lightly that I shivered. I sensed him pause before humming to himself. “You like that, hmmm?”  
“No!” I snapped, curling up and trying to shove away from him. Hands encircling my wrists, he pinned me down with less force than before, leaning down until I felt his mouth against my ear.   
“You will not escape this,” he giggled darkly. “You’re mine for however long I dictate.”  
I forced an uneasy smile onto my face. “Oh, great,” I snapped sarcastically.   
“I have a fun game in mind,” he proposed, pulling back. “Fight.”  
“What?” I sputtered, suddenly cold and disoriented with a lack of his presence.   
“Come along,” he urged, standing further away. “You should know how to fight. You’re a criminal.”  
“... hand to hand?” I proposed slowly, sitting up and touching the blindfold.   
“Of course.”  
“I... but...”  
“Come along,” he urged again, and I heard the air shift. “I know you know how to fight. Try and beat me blindfolded. It will be a good challenge.”   
“You’ll kill me,” I stated flatly.  
He giggled. “If I wanted to kill you, you would already be dead.”  
A flash of resentment coursed through my veins. “Pretty bold,” I hissed.   
I could hear the smirk. “Humble me, then.”  
“Gladly.”  
I jumped forwards off the bed and swung a wide hit to the air where I figured he was. The entire time I had been calculating how he was moving, how he was standing, what his hands were doing. I knew that he held them clasped loosely in front of him, fingers untwined so that he could quickly and easily block my first attack. I swung high, forcing him to bring his arms up swiftly to defend his face. I planted my heel. Pivoting quickly, I spun once and put my knee into his now exposed midsection. He was just fast enough to dance backwards as I grazed him.   
Unable to maintain composure, I chuckled slightly. Even in my fumbling darkness, I had forced him to give me ground.   
I attacked again before he could find an opportunity to take the offensive. Switching to my other foot, I continued my circle and whipped my heel up towards his general direction. Unfortunately, the bastard caught my ankle and yanked my forwards sharply. I slid and fell, elbows up to block a strike. As he dragged me towards him, he shifted his grip up my leg until my hips were against his and my one leg was up over his waist as I balanced precariously.   
Stability achieved, I chucked my elbow forwards to jam into his shoulder. Reacting quickly, the mortician stepped forwards and ducked beneath the swing. His movement threw my centre of gravity in all the wrong directions as I was still leaning on him, and I fell backwards.  
Prepared for the stumble, I put my hands out behind me and caught myself on the edge of the bed. Still cloaked in darkness, I heard him slide forwards. Thrusting my left hand up, I swung it in a wide arc. He chuckled as he dodged the hit. Sliding down before the Undertaker could grab me, I rolled towards what I believed was the door.   
Suddenly, harsh contact jarred my shoulder. The mortician had kicked me down, flat to my stomach and suddenly breathless. As I rolled over he dropped to his knees on either side of me.   
Reacting quickly as I felt his weight on my hips, I threw a punch forwards and satisfyingly slammed my fist against his cheek. He yelped and I hit him with my other hand as well, and I was hit in return, but more of a push to get me back down on the ground as I scrabbled away from him.   
Bringing my legs up, I planted my feet on his chest and kicked him off of me. Now I was disoriented; was I facing the ladder, or was I facing the bed?   
My moment of deliberation doomed me. I felt his hand wrap about my neck as he dragged me against him, my back to his chest. His arm snaked forwards in a headlock, his other wrapping tightly about my waist.   
“F—“  
He laughed quietly against my ear as I twisted furiously in his grip. “You did fairly well, dear. Consider me impressed.”  
“You’re enjoying this t-too much,” I gasped, straining against him.  
“It’s not my fault that you look all hot and bothered now,” he giggled, sliding the hand that was around my waist up my side and then dipping his fingers just under my shirt hem.   
Shrinking away instinctively from his cold skin, I drove my elbow into his stomach.   
He coughed in surprise and let me go for a moment. Ripping away from him, I landed on the floor. He quickly recovered and picked me back up, ignoring my hissing and thrashing. Wrapping his arms around me again, he lifted me right up off the floor. I kicked at him, but it seemed to do nothing.   
“That was rather rude,” he chided, breath hot against the side of my face.   
“FUCKING PUT ME D—“  
He twisted sharply and swung me upwards, catching my legs over his arm as I screeched.   
Suddenly, I was facing him. I paused. Beyond the blindfold, I could feel that he was close. After a careful moment of silence, I put one hand against his shoulder and curled the other up on my chest shyly.   
“Y-you’re analyzing me,” I breathed.   
“You should be used to it,” he murmured back. He was very close. I could sense the vibrations of his voice across the surface of my skin.   
“Not like this,” I whispered. “It has always been for violence. For target spots, easy pain.”  
“Well, I consider what I’m looking for target spots...”  
I blushed and grit my teeth. “Very bold—“  
“We copulated, Langdon,” he sighed, laughing humourlessly. “Yet, for someone so brusque, you act shy. Why?”  
“I...” I squirmed uncomfortably, reaching up for the blindfold.   
“No,” he reminded me. “Not yet. Do not ignore the question.”  
“I... I do not remember last night,” I hissed. “I told you that. Do you ever listen?”  
“Don’t attack me just because you’re embarrassed,” he chuckled. Then he stopped suddenly, and I tensed.   
“Have you... not done all of this before?” He inquired slowly.   
I shook my head and threw my arms over my face as it went red. “Of course not!” I spat.   
“Wait— tell me that last night was not your first...?”  
“Of course not!” I repeated, sending a glare his way through the blindfold. “It’s just always been coated in alcohol, drugs, and violence.”  
He sighed. “All good things.”  
Then suddenly we were moving.   
I shrieked as I tumbled out of his grip, deposited somewhat unceremoniously on the bed.   
His hands went up my shirt slightly, fingertips grazing over my skin.   
“Woah— no, I can’t—“  
“Relax,” he murmured, ceasing his motion temporarily. “I will not push too far. Trust me.”  
“TRUST YOU?!”  
“Yes,” he affirmed. “Trust me.”  
After a moment of painful deliberation, I forced my panicked breathing to slow.   
He took this as a sign to continue, and the mortician slowly leaned over me. I flinched as a lock of hair tapped my face. Then his mouth was on top of mine, warm and strangely comforting. It gave me something else to focus on.   
“So,” he murmured, breaking away. “What have you not experienced yet?”  
I chuckled darkly. “Love,” I cackled, making myself laugh harder. “Peace of mind, a day without muscle soreness— you know, the normal things.”  
The mortician giggled sadly in reply and gently tugged the blindfold off.   
I cringed and blinked several times, suddenly blinded by the dim light of the room.   
The mortician hovered just above me, grinning shyly. The blindfold fell to the floor.   
After adjusting to the light, I blinked up at him questioningly. “...already?”  
He giggled. The dark violet shirt seemed so much more vibrant against his electrifying eyes after the darkness.   
“Well, just lie there and pretend like you’re still being obedient.”   
“I don’t obey! I am not obedient!” I scowled. “I am in charge.”  
“Pfffft,” the mortician scoffed. “Trust me,” he growled, leaning closer and pressing me down on the bed. His glare from beneath his lashes sent a shiver down my spine. “You’re not.”  
“I—“  
He pushed his mouth on mine again, gently prying my lips apart with encouragement from his tongue. I put my hands on his chest, and he lifted my legs over his hips.   
“This is how the night began,” I murmured when we broke apart for a moment.   
He smirked. “So you do remember.”  
“That’s basically where it ends,” I sighed, slightly embarrassed.   
“Well,” he chuckled, tracing a thumb along my cheek slowly. “Allow me to fill in the blanks... and maybe something else,” he winked.   
I punched him dead in the chest, turning red with a hot blush. “How dare you!”  
“How?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Just like this.”  
Before I could reply, he kissed me again, gripping my arms and holding me to the bed. He pushed his hips forwards into mine, and then again, and I gasped at the contact, turning my face away.   
He slid one hand beneath my chin and turned me back to his mouth. His fingers darted up beneath my blue jumper and scratched lightly along the sides of my ribcage. I keened quietly and he chuckled as I clapped a hand over my mouth in humiliation.   
“Please,” he chuckled. “Make that noise again.”  
He raked his nails down my sides again, harder than before. I hissed and arched my back, in turn causing more friction at our hips.   
A small noise between a gasp and a moan escaped me before I bit my nails in order to stop it.   
He chuckled again and leaned his head down against my shoulder, suddenly breathing hard and shaking slightly. He rolled his hips forwards again, and I felt the mattress tug at my skin as we moved.   
A thin sheen of sweat shone on both of us as I unbuttoned his shirt. It fell open, exposing his scarred porcelain torso.   
“Your cuts are healing quickly,” I murmured, glancing up at him from lowered eyelashes. “Almost inhumanly quickly.”  
I said it as a challenge. I knew, somewhere, by now, that he obviously wasn’t human, and I also knew that he didn’t like talking about it.   
It was my one weapon.   
He smirked coldly, narrowing his gaze. “Careful, now. Inhuman can turn into inhumane shockingly quickly,” he seethed, icy hands digging in on either side of my abdomen.   
“I wouldn’t dare...-ah!- anger a non-human,” I whimpered, twisting uncomfortably in his painfully tight grip. Then I paused and levelled a mischievous glance at him. “Who knows what you could do to me.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> V short addition, I’ve been working on my other one, sorry, I worked on this one for so long XD so I figured I’d show Hotel California some love but here’s a small update.

Half-stripped, I yelped as my hips hit the bed. My open shirt fluttered forwards, the airy and delicate material a sharp contrast against how roughly I was being handled.   
“You— absolute—“  
“Shshsh—“  
“—SAVAGE!” I screamed, throwing my arm up across his clavicle and shoving the mortician away from me.   
I was bleeding lightly from a superficial scratch down the side of my abdomen, my wrists were already bruising, and my lower lip throbbed. I had done him some significant damage as well, as his hair was disorganized and his lip was slightly split.   
“Non-human,” he corrected mockingly, grabbing my waist and dragging me towards him.   
“I repent my sins! You’re human, you’re—“  
The Undertaker wrapped his fingers around my throat and lifted me, effectively silencing me with the pressure as he knelt on the bed and held me up to his height. Pulling and thrashing against his hand, I reared back and kicked him in the chest. He flew backwards and dragged me with him, both of us tumbling off the bed. My throat was free. As we hit the floor, I gasped for air and he flipped and rolled away before lunging at me again.   
“Lying is immoral,” he scolded harshly, wrapping his arm about my waist and sitting on the edge of the bed. I was once again pulled with him, and though he struggled to keep me in place, after a brief fight I was forced into his lap.   
“Then you are an immoral immortal,” I snapped. “How pleasantly— fitting!!”  
“You’re digging your own grave,” he muttered, wrapping his arms tight around my torso and putting his mouth against my ear.   
“That’s your job,” I seethed in return, struggling away from him. “Would you let me go, you brute?!”  
He tensed and I stiffened, suddenly paranoid that I ticked him off for real.   
“Brute, am I?” He murmured darkly, fingers curling over my shoulder.   
I sat completely statuesque, my back arched away from him and my hands gripping my knees in terror.   
Then he chuckled suddenly and shoved me off of him. I yelped in surprise as my knees hit the floor.   
“I’m not a brute,” he laughed darkly. “I’m a tyrant. Apologize.”  
“What?” I scoffed, pushing myself to my feet and dusting off my knees. “Are you joking?”   
“Go on,” he commanded quietly, also rising to his feet.   
As soon as I had turned around to face him, his fingers curled into my sweatshirt collar.   
He pulled me forwards sharply, staring down at me impassively. “Go on. Apologize.”  
“You don’t have your tongs this time,” I hissed, exposing my neck to him. His eyes flashed. “You’ve got nothing. You are no one here.”   
“I made you what you are,” he growled from behind his teeth. “I am your master and you will refer to me as such in your formal apology.”  
“Ooh,” I winked. “Feeling a little dominating?”  
He twisted his hand and yanked me down violently, dipping me over his arm and bunching his other fist in my hair. He did it again and my knees gave out. Back up. He guided me by my hair and then dipped me down again, all in rapid succession. I twitched in panic, the flipping sensation familiar.   
“S-stop,” I whispered. “S-stop! I won’t— I won’t— this won’t— work—“  
“Under,” he murmured softly, tipping me forwards again.   
My hands flew to his arm around my waist as I was bent over the-  
I shook my head weakly, staring at the floor of my room.   
“And up,” he whispered, lifting me out of the-   
I wiped my hand across my mouth, erasing a string of saliva that had escaped. I was breathing just fine.   
“And under,” he growled.   
Into the cold-  
“GET OFF ME!” I screamed, finally forcing my legs to move and lunging away from the mortician.   
I broke free.   
Stumbling forwards, I fell to my knees and glared back at the shocked mortician.   
“I will never call you master,” I spat. “You are nothing but a monster.”  
He sat back on the bed slowly, still gazing at me speculatively. Then he spread his hands. “Then why haven’t you killed me?”  
“I don’t like killing. I don’t do it,” I snapped.   
“Why haven’t you forced me out? Why am I still here?”  
I paused, drawing in a shaky breath. “You match me,” I muttered after a moment. “Better than anyone else ever could.”


	18. Chapter 18

The night air was cold, and I pulled my cloak around myself tighter, shutting out the wind.   
The mortician was still in the building. I had charged him with caring for Ethan until I returned. Not that Ethan needed guidance any longer; rather, the Undertaker was not to hurt him. I maintained faith that he would maintain his word towards the child.   
I only planned to be out for the one night. I needed a break from everybody. Having the mortician as my “captive” was draining my psyche.   
The familiar buildings passed like shadows of friends I never had as I continued down the streets, footsteps cracking loudly against the stones. I pulled my mask up. Warm.   
I passed the bridge that ran above the Thames and shivered, clutching my cloak ever tighter. Keep walking. In a daze, I carried myself further outside of London’s centre. At one point, I passed an empty lot with a black gate in front of it, and dirt-rimmed eyes peeked out at me. I smiled, but the child couldn’t see it beyond the mask. I kept walking.  
Thinking back on my own childhood, I had started out very innocently and very similarly. How had I become the machine I was now?  
Well, the mortician certainly helped, I reflected bitterly.   
My parents had died when I was exceptionally young, carted away on the organ wagon.   
I shuddered. He probably saw them. He probably dealt with them. If not as a mortician, then when they died, he probably....  
Reaped. Them.   
The idea was absurd of course.   
Oops, when did I stop walking? Keep walking.   
His scythe, though, had been real. He seemed timeless. It all lined up inconveniently easily.   
I shook my head. It didn’t matter.   
I wondered what my parents would think now.   
It doesn’t matter. They’re dead.   
Where the hell were all these thoughts coming from?  
I breathed in the cold night air through my nose, chilling the back of my throat right up into my head. Please, make it all go away.   
I pulled a small flask out from my robes and took a drink. It was cold from the wind on one side, and warm from my body on the other.   
I wondered if I would blackout. I liked to blame my blackouts on the alcohol I consumed, but, sometimes I wondered if they were something else.   
I took another swig. If I was going to pass out out in this jungle, it was damn well going to be because of alcohol.  
I rounded another corner, and came upon quite a strange sight.   
A large stone fountain stood in a small square of cobblestones and dying grass, poised between two smaller buildings. It was like a wishing fountain from a fairy tale, I decided, pausing to stare.   
It was still functional, although the water seemed dirty, like a black-purple. Slightly darker than the sky. The stone it was carved of was white and green, cracked and chipped from age. Stepping over the small spiky fence that separated the miniature courtyard from the public, I approached it cautiously.   
Realizing I had never seen this fountain before, I wheeled around. Where was I? Had I been so lost in thought I managed to wander somewhere I didn’t know the layout of? That could be bad news. I pulled my mask back up before facing the fountain again. The water moving over the surfaces and falling in small sections was almost silent, a smooth whisper rather than a rush. I placed my hands on the frigid edge and leaned over.   
Panicking and falling back, I hit my hands on the stones hard and winced. Stupid.   
Surely I must have seen it wrong.   
My reflection hadn’t blinked back at me.  
Calming my breathing, my ears perked up. Something was definitely wrong here. It was the same sense I had gotten years back, when the carriage had destroyed my ribs and the mortician had appeared from the shadows.   
I slid around on the ground, careful not to make too much noise as my boots scraped over the stones. I backed up on my hands and knees, gaze sweeping over the dark and abandoned street behind me.   
I dared him to step forwards.   
No one came, of course, but the hair on the back of my neck wouldn’t go down.   
“Where?” I whispered silently to myself. “Where are you?”  
My back hit the edge of the fountain, as planned, and I hovered beneath the lip. Protected.   
The sense of eyes on me wouldn’t leave me.   
I was just about to call out when I heard the water shift above me. Huddled beneath the lip of the fountain, I was paralyzed as a curtain of purple water sloshed over the edge in front of me. I slapped my hand over my mouth in order to hide my cry of fright.   
My eyes widened and I could feel my heart pounding, the paralyzing terror building in the silence of the abandoned night.   
Somebody stepped from the water. Their leg landed inches in front of me and I pressed myself back into the underside of the fountain, desperately praying whoever it was wouldn’t notice me and hadn’t heard me. What the hell was going on?  
My mind raced from ghost to fairy to murderer. All of which I decided I feared.   
The foot that stepped down was not the colour of human flesh, which really didn’t help my building fear.   
I could sense a blackout coming as my head began to feel light and nauseous.   
Not now, I prayed, not now.   
Water trickled between the stones, seeming to continue to pour from the creature. It seeped into the grass poking between, and I watched as the green curled up and turned to brown upon contact. I grimaced and shifted backwards automatically.   
The creature stood there on two humanoid legs, and that’s all I could see. Silence fell once again. After another unbearably long dark and quiet pause, it sighed and dropped to its knees.   
I stayed silent.   
Long blue hair draped down in front of the slightly green skin, and the creature— fairy, I decided— turned to blink at me with bright amber eyes.   
“I knew you would come,” it grinned, and before I could cry out, several black limbs sprouted from the monster’s back and struck me in the throat, midsection, and leg. I screamed as it dragged me out from beneath the fountain, curling my fingers against the ground desperately.   
Faster than I could take a breath, the creature lifted me high into the air and slammed me down into the black and purple water.   
I blacked out.  
~~~~

*THE STORY IS NOT OVER* I know it’s a weird ending! It’s going to be explained!   
There’s a plot in motion that will connect When in Rome with my other fic, Hotel California, and one more fic that I intend to produce very quickly.  
This connection will require the reader to have read all 3 stories to really appreciate the characters from each fic, but if you enjoyed this one and don’t feel like reading the others, then thanks for reading! I didn’t want to drag this one out much longer and I felt like I was running out of plot except for the fountain creature, which will lead us into the connecting fic. Hotel California has a few more things to tie up (lol) before I conclude that one similarly, and both Langdon and London (along with the new character that will probably be introduced this weekend) will all return in the fourth fanfic. But first I will finish Hotel California and get through the third character’s story. (Seriously, if you liked this one, you’ll probably like my other stories anyway, there’s pretty similar stuff with slight differences in plot and characters.) anyways, I promise it’s all going somewhere and imo it’s going to be epic. I’m hyped for it. I haven’t forgotten or abandoned! Thank you for reading and see you soon!!


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